


Orientation

by coffeecakelatte



Category: Pet Shop Boys
Genre: Clubbing, Coming Out, Cruising, M/M, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2020-11-23 23:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 63,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeecakelatte/pseuds/coffeecakelatte
Summary: Neil and Chris cross paths one late August afternoon. They both want the same thing out of each other, but only one knows it yet. Pre-PSB.





	1. Inclination

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to the fic that started as one chapter and ended up as a legit novel. I can't believe it, either.
> 
> This fic is only somewhat canon-compliant. I started writing it when I was new to the fandom, and through the months I've discovered that the actual story of PSB took some very different turns. So it's _inspired_ by PSB, and I've tried to be accurate when it comes to stuff I've read in interviews (regarding their personalities and tastes), but these are fictional characters with a fictional story that cribs from certain real-life events. It's not meant to be taken as the truth. It can't be; at some points, it directly contradicts real life! I've played around with various timelines, dragging them here and there to make them fit the story I wanted to tell. But it's set approximately August 1981-July 1982.
> 
> You'll see a few other gay figures in synthpop, too - again, these are fictional characters based on real people, and I don't intend to imply that this is the truth about them either. It flowed straight from my brain to the computer screen.
> 
> Oh, and there's a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1KReBAFYQrxOaOSP235Cno?si=cm-rrH40TtyQ-_9B4ecIOg) and [listening guide](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1kcr1KZpWo2TooefEBd92br0qrhKC64zhu71oNVTnFn0/edit?usp=sharing)!
> 
> Big thanks to my friends who helped me brainstorm, write, and edit this fic. I owe it all to you.

On a Saturday the synth shop is littered with faces he knows, and he’s sick of seeing them all. Common sense would say _go to a quieter shop_, but this really is the best one in London, known for getting its hands on the newest, shiniest tech. So the blokes trolling the aisles, eyes on the prize, have a reason to be here. Every Saturday they appear like clockwork, forming a tableau. And Neil’s even developed nicknames for them.

First, Wonder Bread skitters in, as pale and bland as his namesake, and drags his eyes along the wall with a pout so intense it’s almost audible. Then with a toss of his little blond head, he leaves before anyone can catch him and offer him (gasp!) assistance. Probably too skint to afford anything--least of all a proper wardrobe. Then there’s his clone, who dresses equally poorly and wears an equally dour expression, but is distinguished by a) talking and b) having deeper pockets. He's actually dropped some dosh on a couple of high-end units, and only then--when he’s waltzing out the door to the tune of two thousand quid--does he allow himself a smile. Call him Wonder Boffin. Finally, in comes Mr. Mustache, a stark contrast to the other two in that he’s tall-dark-and-handsome, and speaks in a Northern accent--when he does speak.

What do they all have in common? Silence. Synth players aren’t exactly known for their gift of gab. They light up only when presented with a machine that does the same. Otherwise they’re reticent, even dull characters, content to hang back and do a bit of plink-plonk on their keyboard while letting a sparkling personality take the spotlight.

For the most part.

On any other Saturday the shop is littered with the same old faces. But not today. The usual suspects are nowhere to be seen, which baffles Neil until he remembers--it’s only _ his _ Saturday. He took the day off. Actually, it’s Wednesday, and the only other person in the shop is someone he’s never seen.

A young man--maybe nineteen--stands there, hovering over the machine, daring himself to press a key. Does he even know how to play? Curious. He doesn’t look like a synth player. He looks like some teenage delinquent who’s cut class, who thinks he’s all cool in his black cap and leather jacket, no doubt nicked from his dad’s closet. _ Henry Hipster. _ The perfect trainers, the artfully scruffy jeans, the frown on his face like he’s so much cooler than anyone else in here--pathetic. He isn’t. He so clearly isn’t. Once you’re in a synth shop, your hipness decreases by at least ten points. And Neil isn’t just saying that because he knows he never once had a chance of being hip himself.

Okay, maybe he is. The younger generation makes Neil feel very, very old, so he compensates by being as scathing as possible about it. He’s surrounded by youth everywhere he goes, and his very job is trying to appeal to people who grow younger and younger while he gets older and older. Working on a pop rag has made him ever more cynical, and now it’s a habit to size people up in the most unflattering light. Mr. Hipster over here is only the latest casualty. He may be a very nice bloke, for all Neil knows.

Mmm. Doubtful.

Finally, Henry hits the key. The note reverberates around the room, sending a shop assistant scurrying to help. He looks up, going red, and that’s when Neil sees his face.

He had it all wrong. Under the heavy black rim of the cap lies a beautiful, youthful visage, the picture of innocence. Not some scowling too-cool-for-school adolescent, but a sculpture in street clothes, a classical art figure, a Dorian Gray for the eighties. The frown is gone, the soft pink lips are open--and now he’s clocked Neil. _ Oh no. I’ve been staring. _ Indeed, his eyes have never left. What he should do is look down, shuffle away, go get that missing part like he came here for. But the intensity of the boy’s gaze pins him in place. It’s almost like a dare. _ You’ve been staring at me far too long_, he seems to say, without once uttering a word. All embarrassment has disappeared from his face, shifting from him to Neil. Then the corners of his mouth begin to lift, up, up, up, until he’s wearing an impish smile. He’s not at all like the blokes who normally come in here. He’s got something different: swagger. The youth is what gives it. Though he’s probably out of his teens by now, his very essence speaks _ boy. _ He’s got everything Neil wants.

Something stirs and comes to life in Neil, and at once he turns away. (_At once. _ Hardly. At least twenty seconds after it would have been socially acceptable.) He curses at himself for being such a weirdo. Another habit of his: the character-study. He’s always been the writerly type, and in school he loved penning long, overwrought paragraphs in the style of his literary heroes, trilling on and on about interesting people. He still does that sometimes. But it’s one thing indulging in his favourite pastime in a coffee shop or a park, where there are loads of people milling about and he won’t be noticed. That’s harmless enough. In a dusty old music shop on a Wednesday afternoon, though? It's barren. Deserted. And no pretense of "studying" can excuse the fact that he’s just been staring at another boy for a full minute and practically drooling with envy. No, not practically, even. He wipes the side of his mouth. One of these days, he really needs to learn how to be a normal person.

They circle round the store for a while, like bees in a flower-patch, and the boy keeps catching his eye from across the shop. Sometimes Neil attempts to hold his gaze. Most of the time he simply looks down. It reminds him of primary school, when all the bullies had to do was glance at him and he’d shriek and run away. He feels distinctly teased. And yet there’s no hint of malevolence in the boy’s eyes; he simply seems just as curious about Neil as Neil is about him. It is intimidating though. Neil isn’t exactly used to being seen.

Eventually he tears away long enough to remember why he’s here. Didn’t he need a new volume knob?

With that in mind, he goes up to the counter and dings the bell. The owner comes out and gives him a dirty look. “You weren’t the one who laid his greasy fingers all over the Synclavier just now, were you?”

“No, not this time--”  
  
“Er, that was me, sorry.”

Neil jumps. Henry is right beside him. He’s a very good actor, that boy, ducking his head sheepishly. Though Neil can still see him grin.

The owner levels his steely gaze at him instead. “Have you any idea how much a unit like that costs?”

“...a lot?”

“More than you can afford, young man.”

“Please, please,” says Neil, trying to smooth things over. “My knob fell off”--a titter to his right--“and everything’s permanently turned up to eleven. I’ve got a Roland, if that helps.”

“Gimme a minute.” The great hunched-over figure disappears into the back.

“If yer knob fell off, mate, I think you’ve greater problems than he can help you with,” the boy says, turning to him finally. He’s got a soft Northern accent and playful eyes, lit up by a killer smile.

“_Volume _ knob,” Neil tries to protest, but now the boy’s grin takes up half his face. With every word Neil digs himself deeper. “And what are you here for, if I may ask?”

“Erm...just curious, I s’pose. I’d like to be a musician.”

“You would?”

“Yeah. Why?”

The clear subtext, of course, being _ why not. _ It’s written on the boy’s face, and Neil can’t bring himself to give a good answer. Well. There really isn’t any reason why not. He just wouldn’t expect it out of this kid, who looks more like a miscreant than a musician. Someone who should be spray-painting a priceless monument or loitering in some alleyway or--something.

Might he admit that and see how it goes?

“You don’t seem the type.”

The boy chuckles. “Figured. Been playin’ the piano since I was this high, but I s’pose if I don’t dress like a complete geek”--as he says this, his eyes glide over Neil--“I’m not allowed in.”

Neil feels himself going red again. This perfect stranger has seen fit to judge him on the way he’s dressed. So he wore a clean, starched white shirt and his glasses, so what? Not like he was on the pull here of all places. Why should he care?

But he does care. Quite a lot, actually. For some reason it really irks him that he’s been judged, and before he knows it he’s totally showing his hand. “I mean you’re too cool to be here, I--I couldn’t stop watching y--”

He bites down hard on his lip. The boy looks at it, and lets the silence hang in the air.

“Sorry,” Neil says. His gaze drifts to the floor.

Considering all the ways this could have gone wrong, what happens next is nothing less than extraordinary. “Hey. Don’t worry about it. Didn’t mind at all...I’m Chris, by the way.”

“N-neil.”

His mind goes into a blur for a few moments. It occurs to him that the boy--that Henry Hipster--wait, no, he’s got a name, didn’t he just say it a few seconds ago, _ Chris-- _is still speaking to him. But it all rushed past his ears like a freight train. “What?”

“I said, wha’d’you play?”

“Oh, oh, you mean me. Well obviously I’ve got a synth, as you saw, and I occasionally convince myself I’m a singer.”

"Huh. I like that. You coulda just said you sing, but no. _ I occasionally convince myself_." Chris gives it a soft, camp lilt, making Neil sound terribly posh and more than a little poofy.

"I do not sound like that," he says, lamely.

“_I do not sssound like that._ ”

“And so, what, what’s your point? I shouldn’t talk the way I do? ‘Coz it doesn’t live up to your standards? That’s rich coming from a Northerner.”

Another dazzling grin. “Blackpool, born and raised. Although there’s nothin’ in the way of good synthesizers where I live, Dave Ball musta bought ‘em all out. That’s why I’m here.”

“Hey, wait a minute…” Neil’s brain is ticking. Dave Ball. He knows that name. That’s--the guy from Soft Cell, isn’t it? Yeah. That synth duo, the one who always call themselves the first even though Orchestral Manoeuvres got there a year before. And now they’re popping up everywhere. Duos, that is, although Soft Cell really made it a thing. Easy enough. Grab a bold, confident vocalist, pair with a veritable robot and hey presto, you’ve got pop magic. Neil’s always kind of wanted to be part of one of those, although he’s not sure which one he would be. He’s not got nearly enough charisma to be the vocalist, nor the chops to be a synth player. Never mind that most of them play with just their pointer fingers, like beginner typists--Neil’s not even good enough to do that. He only bought the bloody thing out of some impulse to become a Proper Musician, and now every time he enters his bedroom, it peers at him from the far corner where he shoved it, collecting dust. Sad. And of course the first time he tries using this big, hulking multi-thousand-pound machine, a part comes off, as if to say _ don’t even bother, mate. _

_ Poke-poke. _ He’s being nudged by an insistent finger. “Oh God. Sorry. I’m in my own little world.”

Chris smirks. “Cute. I was just saying, me an’ Dave went to the same school. Same year and everything.”

Neil does the math. “So you’re...twenty-one?”

“Yep. Finally legal.”

And then Chris gives him a meaningful look--only he can’t tell what, exactly, it means. Something niggles at the back of his mind. What is it? What could he be legal _ for? _ Isn’t it 18 for everything now? He vaguely recalls some bit of legislature that’s still stuck at 21, but he can’t dredge it up. Meanwhile Chris is still looking at him, almost like a challenge. _ Figure out what I just said. Figure out what I really mean. _ It’s enough to admit defeat. “Legal. Huh. Right.”

The owner clears his throat rather too dramatically, startling them both. _ Phew_, thinks Neil. _ Glad I don’t have to admit what an ignorant bastard I am. _

“If you lot are done…’ere you go.” He places the part in front of Neil. “Three pounds fifty. And”--his head swivels to Chris--“can I help you?” It definitely sounds more like a threat.

“No thanks, I, I’m with him.”

_ But I just met... _Neil tries not to think about it too much. Apparently Chris is his mate now, after one conversation. As though they came in together. He wouldn’t mind having Chris as a mate though. He seems the kind of guy who’d be fun, playful, partylike--the opposite of dull, stick-in-the-mud Neil. And certainly a hell of a lot cooler than he is. Like, even here he’s managed to retain his air of unflappable chill. Maybe they can be synth buddies. Meet here, talk shop, go home. He’ll have to work that out with the office. Take a longer break on Wednesdays, perhaps.

The money’s exchanged, the part’s in his hand and Neil’s on his way out the door. He gives a little wave to Chris, who’s got his nose in a book of sheet music, and steps outside. Soon Chris is right there with him, and Neil can’t help but notice that the book is still in his hand.

“Kleptomaniac,” Neil says, pointing to it.

“What? Oh!” In that split-second, there’s a key opportunity to study his character. How will he react? “Whatever. S’mine now.” He shrugs. _ Rebel_, Neil writes in his mental Rolodex. _ Chris, Northern, jokester, good-looking, rebel. _ And now with a weird rectangle shape poking out of his jacket where he stuck the book. “It’ll keep me warm. I’m always cold.”

“Yes, I’m sure my ill-gotten gains keep me warm at night too.” _ Ill-gotten gains, _ since when does he sound _ this _ posh? It’s as though Chris’s amiable working-class energy is drawing the pompous arse out of him. That and the fact that they barely know each other. Neil is perfectly capable of being a casual, relaxed human being when he’s among friends, but among strangers he has a tendency to freeze, to go all stiff upper lip. The Queen of England, his friends call him. _ We are not amused. _

“D’you always have a giant stick up your arse, or is it just me?”

Chris’s eyes glint and land on Neil. A little shiver runs down his back. It really is unnerving when he does that--yet strangely exciting. He flashes back to their look-at-me game in the shop. It was something completely new to him. It made his stomach do backflips, but he kept chasing the thrill, the sweet side of it. Like a perfume with an incredible note at the end. _ No, I don’t like it...no, I _ ** _do._ **

But now that they’ve talked a bit, and Neil’s got a better sense of his character, it fits. There’s always a hidden meaning of some sort, is what he’s finding with Chris. They’ve only known each other for an hour, but already Neil can tell that there’s loads to him. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s aiming for his doctorate.

“Or would you _ rather _it just be me?” Chris adds, nudging him with his elbow.

That only makes things worse. “You know, you are talking a whole lot of nonsense and I understand approximately none of it.”

“You’ll get used to that.” They walk along pleasantly for a few paces, and Neil catches a glimpse of them in a shop window. Cripes, do they make a funny-looking pair. One tall, gawky, and so nerdy he’s practically a caricature, and the other...well...Chris. Kind of like the male equivalent of Sandy in _ Grease_, post-makeover. _ Tell me about it, stud. _ While Neil’s going down that mental rabbit hole, Chris pipes up again. “So what do you do?”

“Wait, why are you following me around?” Strangely, that’s the first time it’s occurred to him. It is pretty weird that Chris just decided to be a tag-along.

“Me flat’s on the way. Why, d’you not want me here?”

Neil gives it a moment’s reflection. Normally that answer would be _ yes please leave me alone_, but today it’s not that at all. “Actually, no. It’s nice having some company.” Which is a phrase that’s never left his mouth.

“Aww. Nice. So…?”

“I’m a writer.” Which has left his mouth, on several occasions. With new people, Neil is always careful to leave it vague. What if they’re fans of _ NME_?

“A songwriter?”

“Well, yes, but that’s not what I do to make money.” God, now he’s making himself sound like a drug dealer or a prostitute.

“Wha’d’you write, then? Textbooks? Car manuals? Harlequin romance novels?”

“None of those,” he says, the Stiff Upper Lip beginning to curl. “And you, Mr. Curious. What do you do?”

“Just what you said. I’m a professional Curious Person. In fact it’s my middle name. I go ‘round asking complete strangers what they do for a living.”

He’s not gonna get a straight answer out of Chris, so he abandons that idea. “Where’s your flat?”

A spark of recognition lights up in Chris’s eyes. _ Oh great, what did I just say. _“Passed it a few blocks back. I was thinking we could go to yours.”

“Why mine?”

“Well, me flatmates are home, it’s...” He shakes his head. “Won’t work. Plus, I’ve never seen a Roland in real life.”

“What are you talking about? There were only about a billion in the shop.”

“No there weren’t. I looked. Quite disappointing, actually. What’s the model?”

“Er…”

“Is it the one with, like, a rainbow of keys at the top?”

“Yes!”

“That’s the Jupiter 8. Wait, you have a Jupiter 8? Christ. I want your life.”

They turn the corner and there it is, Neil’s flat. Small, humble, what real estate agents would euphemistically describe as "quaint"_\-- _ but neat and nicely furnished. And his own. No more sharing with messy yobs throwing their coats on chairs and leaving dirty dishes in the sink. No more splitting the garden three ways. Neil takes great pride in growing peppers _ and _ pansies in his garden. There’s nothing quite like a fresh-grown pepper diced in one’s morning omelet. He likes it here. After a few months, it’s begun to finally feel like home, and it gives him a warm pang as he unlocks the door.

When he gets in, Chris throws his jacket on the chair. Neil promptly seizes up. “We have hooks near the door,” he says, though he’s taken aback for a sec by how small and unassuming Chris looks in just a t-shirt. Slim build, average height. The shirt, though plain, clings to his figure and fits him well. The man has style, there’s no doubt about it.

“We are not amused.” But Chris, to his credit, goes and gets the thing and hangs it up, and Neil stares at it for a while. He would never have the confidence to pull that off.

He turns to find Chris staring at him. An odd look on his face. Head tilted a bit.

Hmm.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Neil asks.

“...all right.”

Chris is visibly baffled, which unsettles Neil. Nobody’s ever reacted to this friendly overture with bemusement before. It is four o’clock. It is time for tea.

He shrugs and gets the water boiling. A tea bag goes into each mug: lavender for him, black for Chris. While it’s steeping, Neil puts his nose to the mug and lets the soothing scent fill his senses. It’s lovely, and it does a world of good in calming him when he otherwise feels very nervous. Next year he should put a sprig of lavender in the garden.

“Thanks,” says Chris, and he holds his mug out. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” They click mugs. Neil’s never done that before. Weird. Better than saying grace, at any rate.

They sip for a few moments, not looking at each other and not talking. Chris seems to be expecting something--his eyes haven’t left Neil for a while. But he is strangely silent.

_ Oh. Right. Of course. The synth! _

“Shall we go and have a look at the Roland, then? It’s in my bedroom.”

This jolts Chris out of his silence. Now he’s grinning again, giving Neil a rush of warmth. Something inside him really likes getting Chris to smile. “Thought you’d never ask!”

Neil gets up and makes for his bedroom, with Chris in hot pursuit, trailing behind him like his shadow. They find themselves staring at this once-glorious machine, with its fabulous multicolour display now grey with months of dust. The only thing he hasn’t dusted in this place. Makes him feel too guilty.

“Well, ta-dah!” Neil says, in an attempt to give it more gravitas, although he gets the distinct feeling that Chris isn’t impressed.

“...oh,” Chris says, after a few moments.

_ I’ve disappointed him. No. I can’t disappoint him. _ “Is that it? _ Oh? _ Aren’t you dazzled by its sleek design? Its sturdy construction? Its, um, its technological things that I’m not aware of? Don’t you wanna give it a go? I’ve got the user manual if you need it!”

Chris doesn’t respond. He turns the machine on and presses a few keys. Then does a scale. Then shuts it off.

“No, it’s brilliant, it’s just--when you said--in my bedr--and--I--I think I may’ve got a good number of things wrong.”

_ Such as? _ Well, the obvious one--he isn’t remotely cool enough for Chris, but somehow he’s managed to put one over on him and convince him that he’s not this loser who spends most of his nights at home drinking tea, watching BBC One and wishing he had a lapdog to keep him company.

Chris heads for the door. _ Ah, there it is. Now he’s got it. _ But before he leaves, he turns to Neil.

“Thanks for, er, this,” he says, unable to meet Neil’s eyes for the first time. His cheeks have gone red.

“You’re welcome, I guess.” What else is there to say? Apart from getting lost in a string of meaningless pleasantries, _ no problem, anytime, the pleasure was all mine really, _ but that wouldn’t be true. It was rather an underwhelming visit, truth be told.

“...y’know, I--I still don’t know if you’re interested, but--”

His hand’s out, and Neil takes it, cautiously. A smooth scrap of paper presses against his palm, _ is that his number? _

The next moment passes by in a flash.

Later that night, Neil reflects on it in the privacy of his bedroom. He looks at the scrap of paper with those thick block-printed digits. A number, yes, sure.

The feel of Chris’s kiss is still on his lips.


	2. Intimidation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil works up the courage to give Chris a call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who left kudos and lovely comments, it makes me SO happy.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction.

9PM.  
  
Neil scrawls out the last of the review before flopping down on the paper.  
  
It’s for the new Soft Cell. It isn’t bad, not quite “Tainted Love” but a good single in its own right, and more likely to make them money besides. Never make your first single a cover, and especially don’t put another cover on the B-side. Lessons learned for his own career, if he ever manages to become a Proper Musician and dig himself out from The Inferno of Frustrated Would-Be Artists. Which is looking unlikelier by the day. He’s not twenty anymore, and the layer of dust on the Roland is now half an inch thick.  
  
He does write on occasion. Songs, that is. In fact, being exposed to a load of new songs each week has done wonders in honing his songcraft. He’s able to hear what works and what doesn’t, and he’s using that to his advantage. Every so often a melody pops out that he knows is good. And lyrics? He’s never needed to worry about those. For him, writing is as natural as breathing. But at this point he figures the best he can hope for is a job penning songs in the background, ditties for future pop stars with more charm and chops than he’ll ever have. Even though he really would like to sing. He knows his voice is soft and thin and a bit fey, but it has its own character, and it’s certainly better than some of the voices he hears on the radio. (Cough, cough, Andy Partridge.)  
  
_See you later._  
  
As he jerks up, his brain rewinds and plays the whole moment back again. Some of the details have been lost to time, but others have only grown stronger-- so now, replaying it feels less like a movie and more like a comic book. It would go something like this: the press of paper, the tug of Chris’s hand, the lean in, the kiss, the _see you later_, the door closing, and the furious red that lingered on his cheeks long after those two seconds had transpired.   
  
It’s now been two months, and he still hasn’t forgotten it.   
  
Of course, perhaps that has less to do with his brain being a cruel bastard, and more to do with the fact that he’s kept Chris’s number in his room, in a special spot on his desk. Every time he thinks to move it, something tells him _no_. Tonight is no exception. _I should just put that in the dustbin_, he thinks, brushing the eraser crumbs off his table. _It’s caused me no end of psychological pain._ He moves to grab it. But instead of dropping it into the bin like he should, he ends up gazing at it in wonder.   
  
He moves his thumb over each character. A name, a number, and CALL ME at the bottom. At this point he hardly needs to look; he knows it intimately. This little scrap of paper has been one of his most treasured artifacts for the past two months. It's been touched, caressed, and turned over in trembling hands. It's stood as a reminder of the most exciting hour of his life. It's fueled shameful late-night fantasies, along with wild, half-cocked dreams that he wakes up from, shuddering and panting.  
  
It has never been used.  
  
Oh, he’s thought about it. Loads of times. The digits are committed to memory, so it isn’t even like he needs to have it with him. But not once has he pushed the numbers into his keypad. A few times, he’s held the receiver in his hand and traced the pattern with his finger. Up, down, left, down, up, down... What would happen if he pressed down on the keys? Would he hear that lovely Lancashire lilt, or the clipped tones of an answering machine?   
  
_Don’t be daft_, his inner critic tells him. _Do you think he even remembers you?_   
  
Probably not. And that’s not even inner critic, that’s pure logic. They were in each other’s presence for an hour, tops. In all likelihood, Chris has moved on with his life, found some other bloke who’s infinitely more interesting than Neil. Or bird. Maybe he likes both. Maybe he could help Neil, who hasn’t a clue what he likes.   
  
A fresh wave of anxiety passes through him, and he kneads the number in his hand, growing more and more agitated. He’s thought about this far too much, especially for someone of his age. Aren’t sexuality crises supposed to happen in one’s teens? Certainly not on the wrong side of twenty-five. And yet here he is, night after night, wondering _am I gay? Am I bisexual? Or am I simply a misguided heterosexual?_ Before this, he never questioned it. Never needed to. He liked women, and some of them even liked him back. Men simply did not figure. Sure, he could admit when a man was good-looking, but so could many of his friends. Furthermore, a few of his friends were gay, and he never felt a pull of any kind towards them.  
  
But that kiss...it was nothing but the briefest brush of lips. It shouldn’t have done a thing. Instead it was like Chris had lit the first match of the Olympic flame. He knew that he would not be able to stop thinking about this, that he would carry it with him for a long, long time. His first kiss with a man. In a way, the brevity of it made it stronger. _Did that just happen?_ The kiss was so short that he could almost convince himself it hadn’t. All he could think, as the door shut and the steps echoed down the way, was _oh_. He felt a lingering disappointment, a potent yearning, and a very strong confusion--feelings that he’s only managed to tease out through regular journaling about the incident. At the time, they fused into a great clusterfuck that could only be described as the mental equivalent of an interrobang.   
  
See, every time he looks at the number, all this shit pops into his head. That’s why he doesn’t do it. Except when nine o’clock rolls around and he tries to convince himself that dialing it is a good idea. Nine o’clock is a “cool” hour, one where Chris would be up, right? Up, but still at home, getting ready for a Night On The Town. He wouldn’t be tucking into bed at this hour like Neil. He’d more likely be tucking into a bottle of Guinness.  
  
Neil suddenly remembers the half-empty bottle of wine in his fridge. Liquid courage. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll give him the gumption to finally push in those numbers.  
  
He sticks the number in his pocket, and, without thinking, walks to the kitchen. That isn’t to say that he’s thoughtless, only that he’s very deliberately keeping any thought out of his mind. He gets out a glass--not a goblet, a glass--and pours himself more like a juice-cup of wine. There’s only an inch left at the top. Out of habit, he gives it a whiff, and then downs it in one go. If he thinks, it’s all over. There’s a strange and terrible monster in his mind, waiting to pounce if he so much as acknowledges its presence. _You’re not as straight as you thought you--_  
  
One hand’s on the receiver, pulling it off the plastic cradle. The other is pressing every key in sequence.  
  
Dial tone. A few rings. He’s about to give up when he hears someone on the other line.  
  
“...Danny, luv?”  
  
_Oh, fuck. He gave me the wrong number?!_ That doesn’t sound like Chris. He doesn’t know who on Earth this Danny fellow is, either--only that the lad on the other line sounded very keen on greeting him. “Erm, no, it’s, uh, it’s Neil. Is--”  
  
“Ohh. Pity. Hmm, Neil. Neil. I haven’t fucked any Neils recently. Or wait, have I…?”  
  
“Who are you?” Because this can’t be Chris. No. The guy he’s talking to is Scottish, not Northern, and apparently quite promiscuous if this is any indication.  
  
“Jimmy. Well, maybe the universe doesn’t revolve around me. Looking for Steve, perhaps? Or Chris?”  
  
“Chris! Yes!” Thank Christ.  
  
“I’m afraid he’s out, doll. Can I take a message? Business or boyfriend?”  
  
Neil’s eyes widen at the word _boyfriend_, and his heart begins thumping. _Chris has boyfriends? Oh no, what if he’s got a boyfriend and he doesn’t wanna see me? Wait, do I wanna be his boyfriend? That’s far too much commitment. I don’t even know if I like men. He said something else--business? Well we did meet and chat about synths, maybe it’s business?_ “Business. Business. I mean I think so, we met at the synth shop on King’s Cross--”  
  
“Wait a minute, Neil? _The_ Neil?” A good-natured laugh erupts from the receiver. “Oh Christ. The way he goes on, well, he’ll be awful disappointed to hear you’re just _business_. I’ll tell him you rang. Have a good night, and next time, be Danny.”  
  
The line goes dead without so much as a _bye_. Neil looks at the phone for a few moments.   
  
What the fuck just happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God now I've thrown Jimmy Somerville into this
> 
> SECOND DISCLAIMER: XTC are my favourite band of all time, I'm allowed to make fun of them a little!


	3. Insinuation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris and Neil set up a...date. In a manner of speaking.

Now there are two things ringing in Neil’s head at any given time. The kiss, and the _ awful disappointed. _ Okay, and the _ business or boyfriend. _ And _ the way he goes on. _ Hell, even _ The Neil. _ (He’s never been The Neil. That would imply that anyone took notice of him.)

And he told Jimmy they were just business. Sure, he and Chris may have exchanged a few _ bon mots _ about music, but really, business was the last thing on Neil’s mind. In his defence, though, he had to choose one or the other, and he wasn’t about to admit to some bloke he didn’t even know that, well, he Wasn’t Business. But that was a false dichotomy anyway. Business or Boyfriend. Pssh. Couldn’t there have been a third option, like _ mate? _ As in, _ I’m his mate and I wanted to invite him to the game? _ (No. That would imply that he was at all interested in sports, or that he ever left his house.)

It’s five-thirty and he’s flopping down in bed. His eye falls to the _ Ideas _ notebook on his bookshelf, and specifically, the rainbow of Post-Its inside. He grins. The funny thing is, they could easily meet for business. Chris is a talented, studied pianist who knows his way ‘round a synth, and Neil is a singer-songwriter. And they’d certainly have plenty of material to work with. Their little encounter gave Neil a shot in the songwriting arm, and within the last month his pen’s gone into overdrive. That’s not to say that it’s all about Chris. Only a few songs concern him; most are about things Neil sees in his daily life. Which is what he used to write about, but not on this level. His songwriting ability has improved immensely, and he feels he’s taken new notice of the world. Sometimes, thrillingly, he writes fast enough that his inner critic can’t keep up. The words flow freely from pen to page, spilling like blood from a cut vein. It would be incredible to bring these words to someone who knows what he’s doing, musically. 

It could also be a nightmare. What if Chris thinks that every single one of his words is pompous, pointless nonsense? Or worse, pretentious? Neil can’t help the way he writes, any more than he can help the way he speaks. It’s very arch and witty and sumptuous, with a heavy dollop of irony. It’s well-furnished, one could say. It isn’t real_. _ For all his cool-guy affectations, Chris does in fact seem real, and perhaps he’d be put off by all the pretty, pretty irony on display. To say nothing of Neil’s attempts at singing.

Or what if Chris doesn’t want to meet at all?

There’s only one way to find out. Neil launches himself out of bed and heads for the phone. He’s feeling a lot less nervous about this than last time. There are two options: one, Chris is willing to meet up again and they can get to work, or two, he doesn’t want to meet and Neil can get on with his life. Simple.

There is an option three, but he determinedly ignores it. No room for far-flung fantasy here--shop talk only. He’s even got a script. _ Hi, I was wondering if you’d like to go get coffee and talk music. _ And see where it goes from there.

_ Maybe I’ll get Jimmy again_, he thinks, as his finger pushes in the now-familiar pattern. _ That wouldn’t be so bad. _ As much of a ditz as he was, he did end up providing some good intel. 

“Ullo?”

“Jimmy! Brilliant! I was hoping it was you. Can I—”

“This is Steve, actually,” the man says, a bit of anger in his ever-so-slightly-different voice. “What, all Scots sound the same to you, then?”

“Are you seriously offended by _ that? _”

“No, not really. Who’m I speaking with?”

“Neil.”

A chuckle. “Oh. _ Neil. _”

“...yes. I wanted to—” and then his script completely falls apart. Both Jimmy and Steve have given his name a disconcerting amount of weight. He’s not sure what that means. “Is--is Chris there?”

“Sorry, he’s still at work.” _ Good, so he does work at least. _ “But here, I’ve got an idea. What if you give me your number and I’ll pass it along to him?”

_ Why didn’t I think of that earlier? _ “Yeah! Yeah, OK,” he says, ignoring any advice about doling out his number to complete strangers, and gives it. “Will you tell him I called?”

“Sure will. And now he can call y—”

There’s a slam of a door. Neil’s blood runs cold. 

“--oh, here he is! Would you like me to put him on?” 

Before Neil can go _ nononononooooo _ , he hears the shout of “Chris! You’re just in time. _ Neil’s _ on the line.”

He wants to laugh. If he did, it would have a touch of hysteria, he’s sure. 

“Hello?”

And that is definitely Chris.

“...hi,” Neil says, for the second time that day having totally lost the script. He’s still getting over how incredible that _hello_ was_._ Chris’s voice...crikey. So <strike>dreamy</strike> <strike>sexy</strike> <strike>perfect</strike> harmonious.

“S’lovely hearing your voice again. How’ve you been?”

_ It’s lovely hearing my voice?!? _ “Good. Good. Er, hold on.” He picks up his notepad and nearly drops it. The butterflies in his stomach are having a proper dance party. “I was wondering if you’d like to go get music and talk coffee. No, wait. The other way round. Talk coffee, get—” _ How are you screwing this up? The words are right in front of you. _ “Get coffee, THEN talk music.”

“...are you asking me out on a date?”

“No! No. I don’t--Chris.” The word _ date _ just put the fear of God in him. His heart is pounding and suddenly, there are words coming from his mouth. Stern, terrible, untrue words, and all he can do is watch as they pile up on each other like a car crash. “I don’t know what you saw in me the first time we met, but--banish it from your head. I’m not bent. My interest in you is purely platonic, and I’d appreciate if you didn’t joke about that sort of thing. I’ve nothing against homosexuals, so if you are one, that’s fine, but I’m not. There was nothing _ datelike _ in what I just said.”

A very long pause ensues. Neil hears his heart throbbing in his ears. As each agonizing second wears on, he wants to sink to the floor and disappear. _ Oh, Neil. What have you done. _

“Right," Chris finally says. _ Ker-plunk_. One single, solitary ice cube of a word, that’s all he gets. But Chris still hasn’t hung up yet, and Neil hears a Hallelujah chorus in the background when he continues. “Sorry. Daft joke. We can meet for coffee, sure. What’d you wanna discuss?”

“Well, I’ve written a few songs, but apart from melodies, I haven't a clue how to, you know, do anything with it. I know you need chords, and, uh, music...little synth bloops and stuff…” He is talking utter rubbish.

“You’ve no idea what you’re doing, do you.”

“Absolutely none.”

“Brill. Saturday, 2PM, and...oh...what’d _ Neil _ like...Bar Italia?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good.” God, even Chris does that thing with his name. In this household, it must be perma-italicized.

“See you later.”

As he hears the line go dead, Neil’s face flares up. Of course, of _ course _ Chris had to end it that way.

_ See you later. _ Neil makes his way to his bed and flings himself on it with a sigh. Like a proper masochist, he indulges in his favourite fantasy: the kiss. Or rather, the alternate universe where he hadn’t been a complete dolt and instead known what to do. Rather than seize up, he seizes Chris’s hand and tugs his body close. He kisses him softly and slowly, wanting to make this last. Their mouths are meeting and melding in an oral exchange far beyond what words could express. Then Chris is insinuating himself even more deeply into Neil’s personal space, nestling his small, slender body into him and grinding away for London, and Neil is _ removing his cap… _

And none of that is possible now.

* * *

The ensuing week is torture of a different kind. An incredibly dull kind, like being sent to one’s room for a time-out, without toys or the telly. The call happened on a Monday, which means that it’s five days before they can meet again. Five days of the World’s Most Exciting Job at that.

Boredom has never killed anyone, but at this rate, Neil could be the world’s first victim. The job sounded so glamorous at first. Travel the world, meet pop stars, write, hone your craft. Ha. More like run errands and be the office intern. _ Could you grab us a few coffees, Neil? _ What’s sad is that coffee runs are the most exciting part of his day. Otherwise, most of the day is spent listening to crap single after crap single, thinking _ I could do better than this. _ And he has. Pages and pages of his notebook are now covered in songs, lines, stanzas, melodies, and everything he can think of. Spite is a fantastic motivator.

But really, so is Chris. Never mind the whole _ none of that is possible now_, that was all rubbish. Neil doesn’t want that, he said so himself. What he really wants is to bring his book of ideas to Chris, crack it open and draw him into his world. And--this part’s very shallow, he admits--he’d love to impress him with a great outfit, so that Chris’s composite picture of Neil isn’t “_complete _ geek”. By the time five PM rolls around on Friday, he’s already planning what to wear. He dashes out to Marks and Spencer and plunks down twenty quid for a checked jacket that gives him massive David Byrne shoulders. And, oh, maybe a little enamel badge for Chris. This one’s shaped like a keyboard. Aww. Into the basket it goes. Hell, get two. Maybe they can match.

The next day, he awakes far too early, with a jittery energy as though he’s bolted back three cups of strong espresso. To calm himself, he takes a nice long shower, but it only barely takes the edge off the nerves. For thirty minutes he stands at the mirror, fussing with his appearance. He would like to look presentable, at the very least. (Really, _ the very least _ is all he can hope for.) 

He fusses and fusses and fusses, especially with his hair. Curly and unruly, it’s always been a pain in the arse to deal with. And it likes to misbehave at the worst of times--such as today, when it’s gone and sprouted a bloody cowlick. After twenty minutes on that alone, he gives up, pasting it to his head with enough hairspray to make Ian McCulloch jealous. 

His face more or less sorted, he turns his attention to his clothes. Yesterday’s impulse buy is staring at him from his closet. It’s utterly at odds with the rest of his wardrobe, sticking out like a sore thumb amidst all the nerdy trousers and button-downs. He gives it a shot, and ends up looking like a waiter at a 70s disco. No. He can’t pull that off, he decides, putting it back on the hanger. Chris will see right through him. It takes a certain level of panache to really sell a garment like that, and Neil’s not got it. He settles for his only pair of jeans and a tee, not exactly fashion forward but not an embarrassment either. Then he tops it all off with his trusty peacoat, slipping both badges in the pocket. He examines the final product in the mirror. What greets him is the sight of himself, for the first time in his life not looking too bad. 

The air is cold and damp as he steps out, and it feels exactly as London does this time of year. There’s no reason anything should be different. Yet so much is. After meeting Chris, little things have shifted everywhere he looks. Of course, his inner cynic can find an explanation for most of it. The lights are a bit brighter? Well, it is Christmas soon, and the shops are pulling out all the stops to get people to part with their hard-earned dosh. People are smiling more? Still fawning over the royal wedding. The air smells different? Smog. But he’s still enjoying his new rose-tinted glasses, and he finds himself greeting the day with an uncharacteristic sense of good cheer. Maybe it’s not the world that’s changed, but him. He started this. He took a spark of human connection and turned it into a conversation, which turned into a number, which turned into a call, and then into a second time. Most chance meetings fizzle out into nothing, but Chris seems to be worth more than that. Neil would like to turn them into something.

Before they’re due to meet, he dips into the hi-tech shop, and is surprised to find that even the tableau has shifted. Now the two blond wonders, Boffin and Bread, are having a good old natter. Neil wonders if they’ve become a twosome too. Unlikely. There has to be _ some _ difference in a duo, doesn’t there? They can’t be two of a kind, it defeats the purpose. Where’s the singer? Just then, a woman appears beside Boffin, as if to say _ it’s me, actually_. She’s tall, redheaded and intense, and she absolutely dwarfs him--which is exactly how it should be: an almost comical level of contrast. No good duo started with a pair of twins. 

With twosomes on the brain, Neil steps inside the cafe. It’s surprisingly quiet for a Saturday afternoon, but maybe everyone’s enjoying the sunny day. There are loads of people milling about outside, and only a couple regulars with their designated places. Chris is nowhere to be seen, so Neil snags a spot by the window and looks outside, hoping to see a leather jacket and a black snapback. 

After ten minutes, he orders a cappuccino. Chris hasn’t shown up yet. No matter. Neil contents himself with the window show. A woman saunters by with a giant, fluffy poodle, nearly colliding with a man and his Chihuahua. While they’re getting tangled up, another woman glides past, tall and lovely in a red wool coat, and Neil finds himself checking her out--which gives him a strange sense of relief. He’s not sure why that is. Unsettled, he gets up and grabs the newspaper, then spreads it open to the crossword page. Only a couple of words are filled out, so he finds his pencil and sets to work. It’s not much, but it’s something a little more active than getting lost in thought.

After another ten minutes, he’s staring at the bottom of his cappuccino. Chris still hasn’t shown up yet. Neil sighs, but it comes out as an exasperated _ huff. _ His skin is prickling with impatience. He eyes the cake that’s just been put out, shiny and regal under its frosted glass dome, with a luscious dark chocolate ganache spread over the whole affair. He’s tempted. Sorely. But if he orders a slice, he’ll be wired from the caffeine _ and _ the sugar rush. Be nice if he could get a half slice, or share it with someone. Then again, with his luck he’ll probably get chocolate stains all over his--notes. Right. He goes and fishes his notebook out of his bag, collecting all the Post-Its that have fallen to the bottom. He spreads them out on the table, astonished when they take up half the surface. He really has written quite a lot. Laying them out like this gives Neil a flash of inspiration, and he starts taking the notes and matching them to others. Some are stanzas, some are lines, and some are just words, but with the help of a sticky cafe table they’re turning into songs. Imagine that.

“Someone’s busy.”

Neil looks up, startled.

He’s got on a steel-blue peacoat, a policeman’s cap, and a deeply devilish grin. His hands are shod in a pair of black leather gloves, and he’s slowly, nervously twiddling his thumbs. Under the rim of the cap, his eyes are twinkling.

It’s Chris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Neil, you idiot


	4. Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The coffee spills into something more.

Neil looks at Chris exactly the same way he did the woman in red, which is the first sign that this is about to go horribly wrong. But he doesn’t realise the “horribly wrong” part until after he’s done eyeing the way those tight little Sta-Prest trousers cling to Chris’s legs. 

There were plenty of other lurid details that received even more avid attention, but that’s the worst one. A certain amount of staring can be excused by _ well you look a bit different_, but not to the point where one’s thighs <strike> and the point between them </strike> are being scrutinised. Chris isn’t dim. He knows when a man is checking him out. So why can’t Neil stop doing it? And why is Chris letting him? What could he possibly be thinking, being so blatantly eyed up by Neil Tennant, the World’s Greatest Heterosexual?

And weren’t they here for business, anyway?

“Er, yeah,” he replies, trying to remember Chris’s comment. It was all of thirty seconds ago and yet it’s murder trying to remember it. “Busy.”

He knows that whatever he says next will be utterly daft, so instead he stands and offers his hand. Surely a better idea than speaking--nope. Chris grips his hand in a firm handshake and the brief bit of physical contact sends a powerful reaction throughout his body. He feels as though a few marbles have been knocked loose in his brain. This is entirely disproportionate, it’s only their second time meeting and their third time talking. He makes himself go still.

They take off their coats and sit at the table, and there’s still a disconcerting lack of good conversational topics in Neil’s brain. There’s a disconcerting lack of anything in his brain short of _Chris-Chris-Chris-Chris-Chris._ Eventually some regular thoughts trickle in, like _oh good, at least he's on THAT side of the table, think I can handle that._ But trying to figure out what to say is still a challenge.

“You look a bit different,” Neil says, for want of anything better. Chris’s got on a little mod getup, and that’s how Neil would describe it, _little_\--little Harrington jacket, little polo, little trousers, little winklepicker boots. The ends of his boots are scuffed and his hair is a tad messy, but Neil likes that. It’s better than all those letter-perfect clones of the mod revival scene. They're in the eighties, after all, what’s the use of slaveringly copying yesterday’s trends?

Chris shrugs. “Thought I’d try it. I rather like the whole mod look, even if the music’s not to my taste.”

“Oh. Not a Paul Weller fan?”

“Can’t stand him.”

“Ah, so we’re more of a rocker, are we?”

“Elvis was shit and he’s the best of the lot. And don’t get me started on all the bands that’re coming out today.”

“No,” Neil says, propping his chin on his fists and steeling himself for the beatdown. “Let’s.”

What follows is the most savage skewering of sacred cows that Neil’s ever heard. It becomes quite the fun game: name a beloved band and watch as it gets slaughtered to pieces. Chris, amazingly, doesn’t like anything. Not a single band merits more than a dismissive grunt. Soon Neil finds himself running out of respectable names, so he takes a different tack. Go for the ones nobody likes. The has-beens, the cheesy ones, the--

“Oh, ABBA! I love ABBA!”

“...are you being sarcastic?”

“That’s the first good band you’ve named. Why, d'you not like 'em?” He’s got on this fabulously cheeky grin and his eyes are daring.

“No, I--yes, but I--” Neil composes himself. “So wait. You’re willing to tell me that you hate Elvis, the Beatles, Black Sabbath, Johnny Cash, and the Ramones--but you’ll go to bat for ABBA?!”

“Yeah.” Is he being serious? It’s still hard to tell.

Thing is, Neil’s fond of ABBA too. But he’s learned to hide it after all these years. Even at a pop publication like _ Smash Hits_, his coworkers are still mostly old rockist types who think ABBA--and its disco ilk--are “absolute shite”. And that’s when they’re being charitable.

“What else do you like, then? Apart from...ABBA.”

Chris goes a bit nervous. “Er, well...you’ve likely not heard of many, but…lessee, we’ll start with the big names first, um, the Bee Gees, Sylvester, Patrick Cowley, Giorgio Moroder...and then you get into, like, the utaladiscuh stuff…”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah. Exactly.” Amazing how his moods change--one moment sly and confident, the next surly and shy. He appears to want to keep this secret for himself. 

“No, it’s not--I genuinely don’t know what you just said. Utalasomething or other?”

Chris sighs. “Italo-disc--”

“Oh, italo-disco!” Neil exclaims. “Oh ye of little faith. You do know what my job is, don’t you?”

“A...writer?” 

Right, they glossed over this the last time. “A music writer. Not _ of _ music, _ on_. Although I’d like to be _ of_. As you can tell by this lovely mosaic of notes.”

Chris tries to peer over, but obviously everything’s upside-down. So he pulls his chair next to Neil and sits entirely too close. A frisson runs up Neil’s back, and within seconds he’s shot straight into Babble Mode. “You’re probably wondering what all this is. Well, my note-taking process is as such; first I get an idea, then I…” and so on, and so forth, until even he’s bored by the sound of himself talking. It’s all so terribly dull. And Chris is too polite to cut him off (unless, shock of shocks, he finds this interesting?!). 

At some point during this soliloquy, Chris raises his hand like he’s in class. Neil gracefully shuts his yap and lends him the floor. “So, erm, d’you really need me then? Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out.”

“No, I abso_lutely _ need you.” Chris raises an eyebrow. _Oop. Got a bit too desperate there._ “I’ve no idea if any of this is good, or popworthy. For all I know, it’s complete rubbish. I need someone to tell me if that’s the case.”

“No, it’s good. I like what you do with words.” Which is about the sexiest compliment Neil’s ever heard. Incredibly, he finds his face growing hot--and then hotter as Chris nudges him and asks him to explain one particular couplet. _Oh hell, that one’s got to do with you._ Neil does his best to be honest while carefully rearranging the subject to be about a woman, and certainly not the person sitting a few inches away from him. Their thighs are touching. His throat goes dry and his words die on the tongue. He is feeling utterly ridiculous.

“You alright, mate?”

Neil nods. “Just--very thirsty all of a sudden.”

“I’ll go get us some water.” And off he disappears, prompting a big sigh of relief from Neil. He swivels his chair opposite Chris, leaving him with the Post-It side of the table while Neil’s on the other end. That could have been dangerous.

Five minutes later, Chris comes back with a towering glass, which he sets down in front of Neil. Then he disappears again, returning with a little something for himself--a coffee, and a slice of the luscious chocolate cake. “Couldn’t resist. I really shouldn’t, I’m flat broke but--”

“I’ll pay. I invited you, after all.” He remembers reading that in an etiquette book once. It’s only polite.

Chris smiles, then rams through the dessert with his fork, carving out a massive bite. He points it at Neil. “First bite, then?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly...”

“Y’were eyein’ it like a long-lost lover earlier.”

“Yes, but--” Two of his coworkers have just set up shop at a table nearby. He can see them out of the corner of his eye, which means that they can see him. No, it’s far too risky. Word gets around quickly at the office, already a haven for pop-star gossip, and he can only imagine what it’ll be like. _ You’ll never guess who I saw out with a boy the other day. Tennant. _ Yes _ our Tennant, don’t look so shocked. Oh I’m _ sure _ it was a date, they were feeding each other bites of chocolate cake! _He shakes his head. “--I ate before I got here. It’s yours. Eat. Enjoy.”

Chris shrugs and digs into it happily. While he’s at it, Neil takes the opportunity to name the three italo-disco songs he knows off the top of his head, which really gets Chris going. Even to the point of talking with his mouth full. _ Points off for that, I’m afraid. _ After going on for a good minute about his crates of disco records, he wipes his mouth, takes a sip of coffee, and breathes. “Sorry. Just, I love that sorta thing. So lush. So rich. Bit like this cake. Sure you don’t want any?”

“...no, thanks.”

“That’s the sorta music I wanna make. But like, dead synthetic. Y’know, some of the synthesisers that’re comin’ out, they’ve got an option for a violin?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We don’t even need an orchestra.”

_We._ What a thrilling word. Neil looks at the cake-conquering titan before him and thinks about what the future could bring. For the first time in many months, he’s excited. “So that’s a yes, then? You want to try, erm, writing some songs together?”

“Yeah!”

“Oh fab! I mean, great! Oh, this is so--” Neil’s mind is racing. A new musical partner. A new beginning. Someone who’s just as passionate about music as he is, but from a totally different angle, who knows his way around technology and has an enviable record collection. The left brain to Neil’s right. He can’t help but grin.

“And…” There’s an equally brilliant smile on Chris’s face. “I think I wanna take you on a business trip. Tonight, if you’re free.”

“Where?”

“Some of the best music comin' out these days...well...it’s a bit underground.”

“Oh, a club!”

“Not just any kinda club.” Chris is silent for a moment, chewing on his lip. “Wait, it’s Saturday, innit?”

“Er, obviously.”

“Then you’ve got your choice. Bang or Heaven.”

“Hey wait, Heaven…” Neil racks his brains, trying to figure out where he’s heard that name. “Isn’t that a gay club?”

“Both are. That’s where all the good music is.”

“But...someone like me going in there…”

Chris waves his hand. “S’alright, they’ll let you in. Don’t worry.”

Neil isn’t exactly worried about that. He’s more worried about the throngs of sweaty male bodies, the thumping music, the tight spaces. The claustrophobia. He’s never been one for crowds, and the prospect of being thrown into what he _ knows _ is the most popular gay club in London (from his friends who are bent that way) is daunting, to say the least. “No to Heaven. It’s...too much. What about Bang? What’s that like?”

“Music’s better. Drinks are cheaper. More yobs, though. It’s only open a coupla nights a week so the lads go stir-crazy waiting all week to party. You might like Heaven. It’s not _ that _ much. What you make of it, really. You can just sit at the bar with your beer and watch people, if you like.”

That doesn’t sound so bad. “Heaven it is, then. I’ll finally get to know what all my gay friends are on about.”

“You’ll love it. It’s brill for people-watching. I’ve seen so many famous faces there, it’s ridiculous.”

“And us someday, right?”

“Pshhhhhh, as if we’ll be famous. _ Another _ synth duo?”

But he’s smiling, and Neil is too. He kind of wants to reach across the table and <strike> take</strike> shake Chris’s hand, but he tells himself not to. Instead he reaches for his empty coffee cup and holds it out to Chris. “Cheers?”

“Cheers!”

“Ooh but do be careful you won’t spill coffee on my notes!”

“Too late, mate, they’re already covered in cake crumbs,” Chris says amiably, sweeping them off. “Now then, I’ve got a few ideas of me own…”


	5. Initiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stepping into Heaven leads into a night of brilliant music, colourful characters, and messy self-revelations. But the night's only just getting started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, I finally finished the new chapter! Allow me to sit and gloat for the next year.

Ten PM is Neil’s bedtime. At this hour he would typically be tucked up in bed with a good book and a cup of chamomile. Tonight, though, his drink of choice is strong black tea, brewed to near-undrinkability. He needs it that strong if he’s to have any hope of not falling asleep on the dancefloor.

It is a cold night in December, a few weeks after that fateful business meeting, and Neil feels a mix of trepidation and excitement as he sips his tea. He sets the cup down with a trembling hand and gazes out the window. Tonight is the night they go to Heaven. It’s about time: it took him nearly a month to work up the nerve to say yes_. _ Since then, they’ve met every Saturday like clockwork, and each session has triggered a fount of ideas, some of which are actually forming into songs. They’ve also done the odd dinner-and-a-movie, and Neil’s snuck in more than a few phone calls at the office. But going to Heaven with Chris—that’ll be something different. Something a hell of a lot more meaningful than coffee and biscuits.

What would have made more sense, Neil thinks, is if he had taken Chris up on his offer that very day. Then it wouldn’t have been so intimidating. Instead he’s built it up into this great fear in his mind, ever more daunting with each passing day, although Chris has reassured him a million times that it’s not so bad and they can always leave if it gets to be too much. Which is what got him to say yes in the first place. The thing is, he really does want to go. He’s dying to know what it’s like in there. Chris made it out to be the coolest place in the world, filled with fantastic music and treats for the eyes. Shimmering neon lights, candy-coloured cocktails, and...maybe a few other things.

The phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Come out, come out, wherever ye are!” It’s Chris, and bloody hell, he sounds a bit pissed already.

“Have you been drinking already?” Neil asks, a hint of scorn creeping into his voice even though he doesn’t intend it.

“Mayyyyybe. Anyway, I’m about ready to party. Can I pick you up in ten?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Oh God. Suddenly this all seems too real. He’s in his pyjamas, for God’s sake. He can’t turn up to the party looking like this. 

“Fab. See you later.” 

Ten minutes to turn himself into somebody who could reasonably inhabit a gay club. Are there rules? He’s heard of his butchier friends getting turned away from some of the posh clubs for looking too straight. But therein lies the rub; Neil’s wardrobe is entirely too bog-standard hetero to fit. He’s combing through the racks now. Five of his shirts are plain white or blue. This shirt has stripes. This shirt has checks. This shirt’s got—a rather fetching madras print, actually. His dear old mum brought him back that one from India. It’s remained in his closet since, gathering dust. But it is a lovely fabric, a thin, flexible cotton, and the print—purple paisley on dark green—is the nearest he’s found to bent. 

He unbuttons his pyjama shirt in a hurry and tries it on. He twirls around and wiggles his arms. If he’s going to dance (and he’s not a bad dancer, despite what appearances would have you believe), his outfit must be comfortable. And it is, especially if he rolls up the sleeves. Ooh. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Not _ bad. _ Not bad at all.

The bottom half is easy. He unearths his trusty (only) pair of jeans from his hamper. Slipping into them reminds him of that day in November. These are the jeans he wore to have his first proper conversation with Chris Lowe, and what a brilliant one that was. His mind’s been in the nostalgia zone all evening, reliving that perfect afternoon. His pen could only go so fast with all the ideas being spouted off, and their chemistry turned out to be incredible. Sure, Chris was far pickier when it came to his musical tastes, but his knowledge of the stuff he did like was immense. And he had a precise vision of how he wanted to make music, combining yesterday’s lush strings with today’s electronic beats. Neil, meanwhile, came out of that conversation knowing a few more things about himself. His tastes went much broader, but that too had been a strength, as he’d come to see himself in the classic songwriter vein. Being exposed to a great deal of music had been beneficial for his—

_ Ding-dong. _

“Coming!” He pushes his feet into the only pair of shoes he can find, his new trainers, and hobbles his way to the door.

“Hey,” says Chris.

“Hey.”

“You, er, you look nice.”

Chris, of course, looks much nicer, in his favourite leather jacket and trousers to match, and Neil’s begging to tell him so. But he can’t find a way to put it that doesn’t sound, well, more than business. “Thanks. You want a glass of water, or…?”

“Neil!” Chris bursts out laughing. “You’re not invitin’ me in, I’m takin’ you to a club! Get your coat.”

“Oh. Right. How are we getting there?”

“From your place? Tube would take ten minutes, a walk would be thirty. Your choice.”

“Well I’m fucking frozen just stood here talking to you, so I think the tube.”

Chris’s eyes widen. “Neil Tennant knows the F word?”

_ Course I do, I only use it every night when thinking about you. _ “And a great many more.” Another thought occurs to him. “How do you know my last name? I never told you.”

“Not important. Now c’mon, I haven’t got all day.”

“My God, you’re more impatient than a kid on Christmas morning. Gimme a minute.” He manages to find his favourite wool scarf inside his coat sleeve, a nice bonus. He wraps it round his neck tightly and follows Chris outside. 

The wind howls and bites and snakes over every surface not covered by wool. By the time they reach the club, Neil’s hands (and legs) are aching with cold. Yet the difference in temperature is immediate. The club pulses with heat, and two big, burly bouncers guard the pearly gates.

“For two, please,” says Chris, when they get to the front of the queue.

To his horror, one of them peers at Neil with a nasty twinkle in his eye. _ If he so chooses, I could be roadkill in any second. _“How do we know he’s not a cop? Or some straight chap come ‘ere for a larf?”

Chris doesn’t seem to be worried at all. He looks over at Neil fondly, with the faintest hint of a smile, then laces their fingers together. _ Play along_, he whispers, before turning to look the offender dead in the eye. Neil attempts to do the same, but he can barely think. The feel of Chris’s hand in his is far hotter than it has any right to be. It’s just holding hands, for God’s sake, the last time this was daring was in year five. But it’s setting the entire left side of Neil’s face on fire. Or perhaps that’s the lingering memory of Chris’s lips brushing his skin. The wet spot on his temple feels positively obscene.

A rush of boldness overtakes him, and he leans into Chris, playing up their coupliness. The hint of a smile turns into a full-fledged grin as Chris finally speaks. “He’s not, he’s me boyfriend.”

_ B o y f r i e n d. _

“Alright,” says the bouncer, softening at the two would-be lovebirds. “Have a good night.” Then he actually apologises to Neil and lets them in.

And with that, Neil is in Heaven, in more than one sense.

He enters on a big, white, fluffy cloud, fully prepared to meet God. But once they’re past the lobby and the bouncer is but a distant memory, it’s all over. The thick black atmosphere of the club envelops him, smelling of stale smoke and sweat, and the bass thumps in his ears. It’s a club. It’s Heaven in name only. And certainly part of the appeal of the pearly gates was that Chris was leading him in. Now that he’s let go of Neil’s hand, the club looks a lot smaller and dingier. Before Neil can ponder too much about what that means, Chris is shoving him and saying something.

“What?”

“I can’t believe you went for it!”

“Well…” Neil wonders, hopelessly, what to say. “Guess I’m a good actor.” It’s not a very good answer, but it’s far better than the three other possibilities he bit his lip on: _ I didn’t need to do much acting, did you really mean it, do you _ wanna _ be? _

“You are. You’re brilliant. Sorry, it’s just, Heaven's a bit touchy about the whole straights being let in, so we had to, er.” Chris goes quiet and ducks his head. “...I s’pose we didn’t have to, really. I coulda just told the truth. If you slip ‘em a tenner they’ll let anyone in.”

“Right, but you wanted to save your money,” says Neil, still trying to wrap his head around what Chris just said. The truth. At the moment, he can only deduce three things: one, Chris just called him his boyfriend; two, Neil went along with it; and three, it stirred up such an excitement in his heart that he went weak in the knees. That’s the truth. But then, how can he fault Chris for thinking otherwise when he’s been lying to him this whole—

“Yeah.” Chris smiles and holds a shiny bill in front of him. “Thanks for that. I’ll buy you a drink with this, boyfriend.”

_ Oh, fuck you. _

Next is the coat check. With a mind full of crossed wires, Neil takes an eternity to undo the big, finicky buttons of his coat. Once he undoes the last one, he shrugs out of it and slides it to the attendant, who’s done away with his shirt entirely. His nipples are pierced, and Neil can’t help but wonder if that hurt. Or if...it feels good for the activities he likes to do. He holds that thought in his head for a very long time before Chris nudges him. “You’re, uh, you’re holding up the line, Neil.”

“Oh! Sorry!” Then he turns and looks at the ever-growing queue behind him. “Sorry, everyone. I’m new here.” _ Why did I say that? _ But he gets only a couple of answering scoffs and sneers. No harm done.

But the coat check is quaint compared to the club itself. Far from being some piddly little dive bar, Heaven is enormous_. _ It’s impossible to see anything properly with all the strobe lights, the crowd is deafening, and he’s getting jostled about by loads of confident guys who know exactly where they want to go. Chris is nowhere to be seen, and for a terrifying moment Neil thinks he’s lost him—until he feels a tug of the wrist taking him to somewhere brighter and quieter.

“Crazy, eh?” Chris says. 

“Yeah. Mad. Oh God. I don’t know if I can handle it here.”

“Ten minutes. That’s all I ask. Ten minutes, and then if you really hate it, we can go.”

Neil’s heart begins to slow down. “And you’ll stay with me? If I get nerv…” The sentence dies out as he recognises someone very famous—or what looks like him, at least. “Chris. Is that Marc Almond?”

“Is it? Hey, yeah! Marc! Over here!”

And now, within a minute of stepping into the club, Neil is face to face with the new pop superstar—whom Chris seems to be intimately familiar with, if the arm wrapped warmly round his waist is any indication. “Been a while, eh?”

“Oh. Well. I’ve been busy.” He rolls his eyes and looks embarrassed as Chris pulls him into a great big bear hug. As he’s being crushed to death, he points at Chris and makes a silly face at Neil, as if to say _ he is completely daft. _

“How’s it feel to be number one?” Chris finally says, after letting Marc go.

“Bloody brilliant. And also terrifying! You still love me, don’t you?”

“Always. Congrats, babe.” And he lays a kiss on Marc’s cheek. “We’d love to be as busy as you some day.”

“Yeah, you never introduced me to your friend here! This your new fling?”

There’s an inordinate amount of anticipation packed into the half-second between Marc’s question and Chris’s answer. “Him? No, we ‘ardly know each other!” Neil deflates like a sad balloon. No more “boyfriend” for him then. “Found him in the hi-tech shop I always go to. We’re gonna write some songs together, I think. Neil, Marc. Marc, Neil.”

“Hello,” Neil says, with the world’s tiniest wave. He has to admit, he’s still a bit starstruck. Far too much to attempt anything as bold as a handshake.

Marc twigs to his nervousness fast. “Look, I’m not some hysterical diva who’s untouchable by mere mortals. I’m just Marc. I don’t bite.”

“Hard,” Chris adds.

“Oh you’d know.” They laugh and get into a playful shoving match, and something pings in Neil’s brain. The big hug, the little looks, the kiss on the cheek...are _ they _ boyfriends? 

It takes a good throat-clearing before they even remember that there’s a third person there. _ Yep. Boyfriends. And I’ve become a fucking third wheel. _ His inner drama queen is threatening to pull a strop, and it’s taking every last scrap of willpower not to let her out. He hates this side of himself. He wishes he could be like Chris, all calm, cool and collected, but he simply isn’t wired like that. No, Neil’s typical modus operandi is to constantly ruminate, even when he’s supposed to be having fun. _ Why didn’t he _ tell _ me he was seeing Marc Almond? I love Soft Cell! I love pop-star gossip! I would’ve been happy for him! _But would he have been, really? He knows he would have been horribly jealous—like, he’s not even in the same league as Marc. It’s ridiculous to think so. And he clearly doesn’t fit in here. Half the guys he’s seen are wearing the same handlebar mustache and Levi’s, and they’ve got confidence and swagger. Neil can’t even grow a mustache. “Chris, I think I’ll go home.”

Chris jolts to attention. “Wait—Neil! We were just joshin’! You can’t go now.”

“Yeah, the night only really kicks in after eleven. Give it a few minutes, luv. I swear, Chris, it’s like he’s never even been to Heaven.”

“He hasn’t.”

“Oh, so that’s why he looks like such a miserable sod! He’s just nervous!”

“I am here, you know,” Neil attempts to say, going red. But they just keep on third-personing him like he’s not said a word.

“Yeah. Wanted to give him a taste of good music.”

“And you brought him to Heaven?!”

“What? There’s plenty of good music at Heaven!”

“Yeah, but—there are _ other clubs_, you know,” says Marc, conveying something very meaningful with his eyes.

Chris gets a little smile on his face. “Oh, I know.”

“Okay, well, I’ll leave you to it. A few pointers for you, Neil. If you need a break, best place is by the radiator on the second floor. If you wanna hear a song, come find me, I’m mates with the DJ. He’s got an incredible collection. And, if you see a girl in a giant satin frock and makeup all the way up to her eyeballs, tell her I said hi.”

He attempts to swan off, but not before Chris’s caught his wrist. “Wait, where are you runnin’ off to so fast? Neil, go have a look around. I’ll come find you later. Me and Marc, we’ve not seen each other in ages...think we got some business to discuss.” His grin gets real big as he drags Marc out to the dance floor.

Soon they get sucked into the tangled mass of bodies, and Neil is left alone, having rather unceremoniously been ditched ten minutes in. He looks out at the crowd. All those sweaty, sculpted torsos are quite intimidating. But he can’t quite bring himself to look away, so instead, he lets himself watch. There are some...very attractive men out there. And he has to admit, it’s easier to do this without Chris. He doesn’t need to explain anything, he doesn’t need to get into the messy matter of the truth; he can just be. A growing sense of anticipation overtakes him. He can try flirting. He can try dancing. But first, he needs a drink.

Amazingly, he snags the last stool at the bar. He orders a glass of white wine and sits, cross-legged, observing the show. Watching the coloured lights dance on the walls, forming shapes in time with the music. The soundtrack is fabulously eclectic, from big hits to songs Neil’s never heard before—and all of it fantastic. Disco is the big one. He _ so _ missed disco. Years ago, he shoved all his old records in a crate at the back of his closet, and now he’s about ready to dig them up again. Every time he hears the swooping violin of a long-forgotten single, it’s like it’s pulling on his heart-strings. But disco isn’t the only new discovery. There’s soul, electro, and now, a grimey, fuzzy little tune from Pete Shelley which includes the line _ homo superior/in my interior. _ That one packs the dance floor solid.

Then, tucked in the corner, Neil recognises another figure. He’s got one arm wrapped around himself and the other held out, a fag poised between his slender fingers, letting off smoke. It’s alluring in the crowded din of the club. He’s still got that tense, nervous energy, but he seems far more at home here than he does at the synth shop. Wonder Bread.

Only that’s not such a fitting nickname anymore. This time, he’s more of a brioche: soft, lightly tan, and...edible. Neil can’t quite believe he’s describing a man as edible, but it fits. _ Was he always that cute? _ In his typical Oliver Twist getup, Neil never took notice of him. But now he’s got on something different, and it’s turned him into a whole new confection. On top, a denim vest and a pink tie-dye muscle shirt. On bottom, a pair of loose white trousers that end at the ankles. On wrists, a few spangly bangles. Fringe swept courteously to one side. And an open, expressive face, with eyes darting every which way—until they land on Neil.

Neil doesn’t look down and blush. He holds the man’s gaze. _ One...two...three. _ Then he steals a sip of wine. He is flirting with a man, and he is liking it. Really, it isn’t much—just a couple of guys looking at each other across a crowded club—but it feels significant. If it were merely Chris he found attractive, that would be one thing. But it’s become increasingly clear that Chris wasn’t an outlier, but a trend. He smiles. Trust Chris to be a trendsetter.

The man smiles back, and within seconds he’s come over, claiming the empty bar-stool right beside Neil. Thank God for the pulling powers of Pete Shelley.

“Hi,” the man says.

“Hello.” 

“I love your shirt_. _” He fingers the supple cotton, brushing Neil’s skin as he does so. Neil feels a frisson of nerves, which is only doubled by the man’s voice. Not how he expected him to sound at all. If he had to guess, he would have imagined a guy like Wonder Bread to have an equally pale, thin voice to match. But he speaks with a surprising resonance: low and dark like Chris, but without the swoonworthy lilt. “Where’d you get it?”

“India.”

“You lucky bastard. I’d love to go to India. Which part?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t go, my mum got it for me,” Neil says, and it comes out sounding a lot more saddo than intended. Time for a change of subject. “Hey...do you, by any chance, go to the hi-tech shop in Camden?”

“Yeah! You too?”

“Only occasionally. I’ve got a synth at home, but I never use it, only gaze at it longingly from time to time.”

“Oh, I could show you how.” 

This is accompanied by a squeeze of the knee. _ God, if Chris ever did that to me. _ But no. No more thoughts of Chris are allowed to invade. Neil smiles and looks down. “What’s your name?”

“Stephen.”

“I’m Neil.” He puts out his hand. _ Are handshakes done at gay clubs? Must remember to ask Chris. _ Apparently they are, though, as Stephen grabs it and sort of tugs rather than shakes. His fingers scrape gently as he lets go.

“Neil. That is so funny. My best mate’s a Neil too. And he’s got a big floppy head of hair just like yours.”

“Huh. Is he here?”

“No, he’d never have the nerve. He’s dead straight.” He taps some ash into the little bowl between them. “Course, I thought I was too, before I started coming here.”

That’s encouraging. Genuinely. “How long has it been, then? Since you…”

“A few months, give or take.”

“And d’you like it?”

“I do. It’s a lot of fun. And the music...cor.” He shivers for effect, taking another drag off his fag. “It’s...inspirational.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m getting so many ideas. See, Neil and I, we’ve got a group, you know...a little one. Two of us. He sings, I play. Like Soft Cell, except I’m the gay one.”

“I’m certain you’re more than just the gay one,” Neil insists, laying an elbow down on the bar and gazing into Stephen’s eyes. Flirting with a man continues to be surprisingly natural to him, and he picked a very nice subject to practise on. As he brushes Stephen’s hand, his skin is beginning to prickle with excitement. _ If only Chris could see me now. _ “You've probably got a lot more to you.”

"Buy me a drink and we'll find out."

Neil marks it in his head: the second time he's ever spent dosh on a man. This is starting to be a trend too. "What'll you have?"

"Oh, just a glass of red wine. I’m a cheap drunk.”

So cultured! Chris would turn his nose up at any kind of wine. Neil pays for his drink and hands it to his new friend, who’s absolutely beaming. 

Stephen was not lying. After a few sips, he’s already tipsy; by the time he’s finished the glass, he’s turned into a giggling geyser of gossip, with an acid tongue that could rival Neil’s own. He knows everything about everyone, and he’s not afraid to share it—the more unflattering, the better. Especially when the topic turns to celebrities, and a dozen or so famous faces get absolutely eviscerated. Neil oh so wishes he had his pen and paper right now. He could pen a scathing Bitz about this. 

“...and George Melly is a bloody perv,” Stephen finally finishes, with a gasp. He jumps up. “Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, but the dance floor is calling me.”

“Wait! Before you go—”

“—I suppose you want my number?”

“No, not now at least. What can you tell me about Marc Almond?”

“Oh! Marc! Lovely bloke, top performer, and a _ fa-a-abulous _ lay, dear. But you didn’t hear that from me.” He giggles and disappears into the crowd.

Well lah-dee-fucking-dah. Of course Marc Almond would manage to come out unscathed. Not only that, but be called A Fabulous Lay, which is not helping Neil in the overactive imagination department. So he managed to flirt with a boy. So what, when Chris is likely getting fabulously laid right this second?

Trying to keep a lid on his surging jealousy, he reflects on the night as a whole. He tries to be rational about this, and pick apart all the loose threads that are governing his mood, but instead of finding answers, he’s only finding more questions. Why did Chris bring him to Heaven, if—as Marc pointed out—there were other clubs? Ones that weren’t so male-oriented? If this were really a business trip, then why haven’t they talked about any of the music? Why did Chris ditch him almost as soon as they made it in? Why didn’t he say to Neil _ oh look, there’s this little thing I have to tell you, me lover’s Marc Almond? _ Why’d he have to spring it on Neil like that? Why’d he tell Marc they barely knew each other, when he told the bouncer they were... oh no. Here comes the big one.

Why, oh why, did Chris call him his boyfriend, without any thought of what it might do to him?

To be fair, Neil didn’t know himself. He had no idea that it was coming, nor that it would inspire such a great, terrifying euphoria in him. He knew that he still found Chris attractive, and if hard-pressed, he would pin his attraction as sexual, not romantic. Some annoying thing that he simply had to live with whenever they got together. It was safer to force his thoughts down the road of _ I’d love to have you, naked and sweaty, in my bed. _ But alongside these thoughts came a depth of feeling that was unusually intense, and he could sense it, even as he denied it at every turn. He had come to be very fond of Chris over these past few months. And his colleagues were the first to notice. They’d rib him about the way he lit up when a certain number appeared on the phone, and make lewd speculations when he got back from lunch an hour late. _ Ooh, look, he’s got stars in his eyes! When are we gonna get to meet your new girl, Neil? Okay, everyone, Tennant’s back from his afternoon quickie, the day can proceed. _

They didn’t know the truth. Neither did Neil. He still doesn’t. The word _ boyfriend _ has never crossed his mind—no, that’s a lie. If he’s to make any progress, he needs to start being honest with himself. The thought _ what if I were Chris’s boyfriend _has crept into his head at least once or twice during their endless chats. Inevitably followed by booting it out before it could settle down, kick back, and take up permanent residence, but still. He let it in. He didn’t close the door. 

Neil orders another glass of wine. Far from blurring his mind, the alcohol is making his motivations clearer. He slides the bill to the bartender, and suddenly he remembers: _ I’ll buy you a drink with this, boyfriend. _ Just that makes his gut twist in mingled excitement and bitterness, and he slumps back against the bar, thinking about the way Chris’s eyes crinkle when he grins, his enthusiasm for all of Neil’s ideas, the fact that he’s brought him out to see so many new things... He likes Chris. He really, really likes Chris. And even if he missed his shot months ago, even if he didn’t have a shot to begin with, he needs to let Chris know.

He stands and looks at the crowd. It’s grown since the last time he checked, but it’s not so tightly packed: there’s room to move around. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find Chris here, right?

Turns out, it’s easy to find blokes that look like Chris from the back: leather jacket, dark hair, average height, slim build, etc, etc. But a half-dozen _ er, excuse me’s _ later and he’s still no closer to finding the boy he actually fancies. (God, it’s so easy and casual to think he fancies Chris now. It feels good.) In the meantime, he’s quickly picked up on something interesting. Men here don’t really touch when they dance. They sort of dance _ at _ each other rather than _ with. _ And soon it’s easier to call off the search and lose himself in the rhythm of a brilliant, long-forgotten tune, surrounded by a hundred other boys just like him. He swings in front of one, dances for a few bars, then glides on to another. The energy is deliciously electric, and with every boy he finds himself getting more and more charged. He’s sure that if anyone did touch him, he would let off a static shock.

And he’s come to another conclusion. None of these men are any different from him. They don’t exist on some higher social plane, they’re not all ornate peacocks or sculpted musclemen, and some of them may not even be gay. Who knows how many “boyfriends” have snuck in here? To say nothing of those who swing both ways…and by now, that figure...may include him.

Neil curls his fingers into his shirt nervously and eyes the bar. Time for another glass of Uncomfortable But Necessary Realisations. He swoops out of the way and heads for the bar. Maybe if he chooses port this time, he’ll just get Pleasant Giggles. 

“Look at you, coming out of your shell!” someone crows behind him.

He swings back to find none other than Marc Almond, and suddenly, he feels seen. That old axiom _ dance like nobody’s watching _ has been his mantra tonight, and knowing that he _ is _ being watched—by a pop star, no less—gives him his first attack of nerves in a while.

_ He’s no different from me either_, Neil tells himself. _ He’s just Marc. He doesn’t bite. _ And soon the nerves pass and he’s dancing with Marc, too, who adds, “I could almost believe you’re not a heterosexual.”

Another shiver rides up his back, and this time it’s much harder to ignore. What exactly does Marc know? Did Chris say anything about him? Was that why they disappeared? “Who said I was?” he asks, trying to pass it off as sly rather than paranoid.

“Oh, I—I just assumed you were—never mind. Lord knows, I should know better than anyone not to judge from appearances!” 

“It’s alright, really. I just realised a couple of minutes ago.” It is rather odd, Neil notes, to be having his big coming-out moment so casually, in the middle of a crowded dancefloor, with Marc Almond as his first witness. “I think I may swing both ways.”

“Aww, good,” says Marc. Neil can’t believe how _ nice _ the bloody guy is. “I’m glad. Seen anybody you like?”

_ You mean, apart from Chris? _ Now they’re getting into dangerous territory. Luckily Neil has flirted with other men tonight, so his answer is easy. “Well, there was this one bloke, we were getting on pretty well. Blond, about this tall? No fashion sense whatsoever. And I think he said his name was—”

“Stephen, yeah. I know him.”

“He had nothing but glowing things to say about you, by the by. You were the only star he liked.”

“Huh, wish he’d say them to my face. Decent bloke, though, and a brilliant lay if you’re considering.”

“Not as good as Chris, I’d wager.”

Marc stops dancing. He stares up at Neil, perplexed. _ Oh hell, I’ve given it all away, haven’t I. _ “Excuse me?”

“Aren’t you? You know…” Neil crosses his fingers together, aware that he looks a complete knob. It is slowly dawning on him that his assumption may have not been entirely correct.

“Oh my God!” Marc cracks up laughing, smacking Neil on the arm and then using it to hold himself up. This goes on for far longer than it should, till Marc’s wiping tears from his eyes. “Me and Chris. Hoo boy. No. Never. We’re just friends.”

“Well—he kissed you!”

“On the cheek! Here.” Marc stands on his tiptoes and pecks his cheek softly. “Now you’re my boyfriend.”

Neil touches his face, giddy from how ridiculous this all is. Marc Almond just kissed him. On the cheek, yes, which apparently means very little, but it was a kiss. He doesn’t fancy Marc, he’s just amused that his first kiss of the night was with a superstar. Then slightly disappointed to find that there’s not a single _ ooooooh _ from the crowd. Marc must do this often. 

But no matter. This is good news. This is very good news. Neil decides to try his luck a bit more. “Is he seeing anyone? Do you know?”

“Not at the mo, I don’t think. He picks up boys here and there, but—wow, you’ve got no poker face, have you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You look like all your Christmases have come at once.”

Neil wasn’t even aware he was smiling. But yes, now that Marc pointed it out, he’s grinning so hard that his face is beginning to ache. “Sorry.”

“What are you apologising for? It’s cute!” Marc sneaks in closer and begins to dance. “So, you gonna tell him?”

“What?”

“That you fancy him.”

“I don’t—how do you know?” he says, feeling himself go red. This is what he means about being seen: it’s embarrassing to have someone immediately pick up on a deep secret of yours that you’ve only just acknowledged to yourself. 

“It’s obvious. That’s why he brought you here.” 

Then Marc bolts up, shocked. He slaps his hand over his mouth. Neil stares at him, heart beginning to pound, wondering what exactly he meant by that. By the horrified look on Marc’s face, that may have been classified information. Normally he wouldn’t pry, but the drink is making him reckless, and he’s itching to get to the bottom of this. His journalistic brain is kicking into gear: _ never tell only half of the story. _

But his quest may be over before it’s even begun. Marc’s backing away, clearly panicked, looking for the exit sign. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said that. He...oh God, he’s gonna kill me...fuck. I’ve gotta go before he finds out I’m still here.”

As Marc makes a hasty retreat, Neil watches him, thinking. So. It looks like he’ll have to do the digging on his own, which means he needs to find Chris. _ Think, think, think… _

“Wait!” he exclaims, to no one in particular as Marc’s wholly disappeared. Neil bolts for the exit and catches him right by the coat check, where he’s (thankfully) chatting up the assistant. “Marc!”

“Yeah?” 

“Before you go...can you get the DJ to play the song Stars?”

“Stars on 45?”

“No! God no, Chris hates that one. Stars, by Sylvester.”

“Ooh, good taste.” He falls silent, considering it. “I mean, I really shouldn’t ‘coz if Chris sees me he’ll burn me alive, but...”

It occurs to Neil that Marc is missing something very obvious. “No he won’t. I’ve not spoken to him all night. I haven’t even been able to _ find _ the little bugger. He knows nothing. You just play the song, I’ll take care of the rest. And you, my friend, will live to see another day.”

A smile slowly spreads on Marc’s face. “I’ll do it. On one condition.”

“What?”

“You tell him everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually heard that Chris and Marc are friends in real life, although I can't say if it went back this far 😉


	6. Indignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil confesses. Kind of.

There’s a reason no one goes by the radiator on the second floor: it’s hot_. _ Neil wipes yet another bead of sweat from his forehead and sighs, a big, deep, long, massive sigh that expels every bit of tension from his body. Only for it to well up again as soon as he thinks about Chris, and what exactly he wants to say to him. 

Which is…?

Contemplating that conversation leads him into a river of unknowns, whose surface is inky black and whose depths are fraught with danger. He can’t imagine how that conversation will go, not with everything he knows. Even if he practises a script, it can easily fall apart if he feels threatened. That’s precisely what got him in this mess in the first place. The monster in his mind is back. _ Remember? That first phone conversation, when you insisted you were a heterosexual? Here, let me quote it for you__— _

Enough of this. Neil pulls out the napkin he’d stuffed into his pocket. He was going to use it to write his script. Instead he wipes his head with it and chucks it in the nearest bin. As a very wise woman once said, _ que sera, sera_. Whatever will be, will be.

As he makes his way back into the crowd, he wonders why “Stars” hasn’t come up yet. It’s Chris’s favourite song. Neil deliberately chose it so that he could have a better chance of enticing him. He sort of had it in his mind that as soon as he told Marc, the song would magically play and Chris would come slithering out of his basket, a snake charmed by the powers of music. There is something rather serpentine about Chris, what with his long, slender form cloaked in shiny, iridescent fabric, his playful, dangerous energy, and his sharp tongue. Neil smiles to himself, thinking about all the boys he’s seen tonight. Which animal would they be? It’s one of his favourite “I’m bored on the tube” games, but there it tends to be limited to a bland selection of “dog, chimp, rabbit, hamster, pig” and the like. Certainly nothing as exotic as what’s on display here: a zebra, a cheetah, a few tigers, a half-dozen burly bears, and several very colourful peacocks.

Still, Chris is the only true snake he’s seen.

This is a better taxonomy to work with. If he goes by the energy rather than just the look, he can distinguish amongst the many, many men in black leather. He won’t bother too much with looking. After all, wasn’t it Chris who was supposed to come find him? 

He pulls away for a sec to observe the zoo. Love and lust in the animal kingdom. The second floor has a fire all its own. Heaven nearly fooled him; the first floor was downright tame compared to this. There, the boys contented themselves with dance, drinks and conversation, to the point where it resembled nothing so much as an especially swish nightclub/lounge for a male clientele. The flirting was limited to discreet glances, winks, and the occasional stroke of a thigh. Quite frankly, he wondered how anyone got off here. But the first thing he saw as he ascended the stairs was a couple of boys utterly ensconced in one another, tangled in a hot, messy kiss. He had to dodge them as he went up, and it sent a big shiver throughout his body. _ Is this in the cards for me and Chris? _ he couldn’t help but think.

But that was just the start. Boys, boys, so many beautiful boys: sitting on each other’s lap, twirling each other’s hair, kissing, rubbing, grinding. Of course some boys are up here to drink and dance, too, but even that seems to have had the sticky glaze of sex poured all over it. Neil finds himself eyeing two guys, a robin and a raven, locked in a slow, sensual groove. _ Kong, kong, kitty kong kong, walk on gilded splinters_, goes the song they’re dancing to_. _ They’re both devastatingly attractive, and they’re so deep in their own little world that Neil can look all he likes. _ Nice. _ The dark one is especially gorgeous, and Neil starts to get lost in a fantasy about what that would be like…

A familiar voice, to his left. “So, which one would you do? The dark one?”

“Oh yeah, definitely. Although the one on the left’s not bad eith…”

…oh, hell.

“Cor bloody cor,” says Chris, slowly, as Neil turns to look at him. “I didn’t need to bluff at all, did I.”

It could have been any conversation between them, really. They’re always bantering like this. Watching and observing. Except this happens to be a conversation about boys, and doing boys, and the boys that Neil wants to do. Chris knows. Chris totally knows.

And if Chris knows he’s into men, he’s got to know that Neil’s into him. _ That’s why he brought you here. _ Thing is, he can’t tear his eyes away_—_which is not helping his case. Chris must have taken off the jacket at some point, ‘cause now he’s just got on a white t-shirt and jeans. But the shirt is perfectly fitted and the jeans are perfectly scuffed and he looks like a model for the Gap, one of those beautiful blokes that Neil notices when he reads the mags now. Before they were on the very edge of his periphery. Now he’s got one right in front of him, and he can touch more than just the image in the ad. He can touch the little sweat stain on Chris’s shirt, right in the middle of his chest. His face is hot, his skin is on fire.

He doesn’t dare.

“Chris,” he says, trying to focus on the bright, shifting patterns on the wall. The shapes transfix him, helping him concentrate. “I’m. Well. Yeah. You’re right.”

Smiling, Chris gives him a gentle punch on the arm. “S’alright, mate. I didn’t mean it in a bad way or anything. I just noticed.”

Abruptly, Neil feels a light-switch turn on inside him. It illuminates his insecurities in a harsh fluorescent glow, putting them on display for all to see. Earlier, Marc had his thumb on the switch, but Chris turned it on. And so now he senses that his soul is laid bare, that Chris is a witness to every twisted, mixed-up thought in his psyche. He is scared for both of them; whenever this happens, the results are not pretty. It will take a Herculean effort to keep himself civil.

“What else have you noticed?” he finally says, aware that he is condemning himself to walk the halls of masochism. He does not want to hear what Chris has noticed. He wants to guard as much of his soul as possible. But this is a stalling technique, meant to stem the tide for as long as he can. 

“I dunno. You dancing like a maniac, mostly. So entertaining.”

_ He thinks you look like a buffoon. _ “Oh really. Thank you for telling me.”

Chris takes a step back, peering at him warily. That may have come out a little harsh. “Okay, something’s up,” he says. 

“How astute of you to notice.”

“You’re acting weird. Was it something that happened tonight? Something I did?”

“Nothing you did,” Neil says quickly. He doesn’t want this to turn into a fight, but he knows it’s on the horizon. “Except…”

“Out with it.”

“…well, weren’t we supposed to stick together?”

Chris’s face falls. Neil watches it with a sick sense of delight. He thinks he sees genuine remorse in Chris’s eyes. The hurt, sadistic side of him wants to see more of it.

“You know, you talk a good game. All, _ let’s take a business trip, c’mon, you’ll love it__—_only, what do you do once we walk in? Abandon me, of course! Sure. Why not. Your best mate couldn’t possibly be feeling vulnerable and alone in a scary new environment. Why should you worry?”

“Neb…”

“Don’t fucking _ Nebbo _ me. You said, and I quote, _ we’ll go there, hang out for a half hour, I’ll stay with you, we’ll talk about the music, and we’ll go_ _ home._”

“We were, it’s just...I got distracted. Look, I wasn’t expecting to see Marc there, I wanted to_—_”

“_—_tell him all about how much I fancy you, is that it?”

“What?!” Chris takes another step back. Now the remorse in his gaze has changed to something more like fear. “Is this_—_I never_—_what are you talking about?”

Neil inhales. Exhales. And repeats. Each time his breath comes out shaky and, incredibly, there are tears springing to his eyes. “Well, Marc said you…brought me here because of…that.”

Chris says nothing.

“You wanted to observe me,” Neil continues, trembling. “You wanted to see what I would do. You wanted to see how your little science experiment would react if you held his hand, whispered in his ear, called him your boyfriend. For a laugh.” He smooths his sweaty palms on his jeans. “You should’ve known what that would do to me.”

“Well.” Chris gets into his personal space, making his face flare up, and jabs his chest. “If you were so offended by that, maybe you shouldn’t have followed me to a fucking gay club.”

Neil feels as though he’s been smacked in the gob. Chris is squinting at him, his mouth a taut line of fury. The shock of Chris getting mad with him blurs his thinking, and it takes Neil a good ten seconds to wrap his head around what he’s just said. At first it doesn’t seem like it entirely connects. Offended? No, not particularly, more like upset that Chris would toy with his feelings so casually. But the thought of saying that, being honest, sends an icy chill down his spine. He can’t possibly tell Chris how much he wants him. How much having him a foot apart is maddening_—_how good he smells, the light cola fizz of his cologne heated by sweat_—_how, even when he’s miffed, his soft lilting voice tempts Neil into thoughts of sin_—_

“I wasn’t offended,” Neil says suddenly, a war raging inside him. His intuition is telling him to be honest, even if his rational mind is screaming _ no_. Above the roar in his head, his body is doing something strange. Acting on pure instinct, he is lifting his hand, moving it towards Chris’s face. His fingers touch bare skin. He’s really shocked that Chris hasn’t decked him by now. No. All this is accepted with a strange sense of ease, and his chin has tilted up in Neil’s hand. “I… I liked it. A lot. And that’s why.” 

This is far too intimate a conversation to be having with their faces so close. Frightened, Neil lets his hand fall. 

“Did you?” Chris asks, so low that Neil can’t detect any type of tone in it. It may be hopeful or skeptical or spiteful or lustful. Not knowing is what terrifies him.

Neil makes himself nod. His throat is terribly dry. 

Chris snorts. “Oh. OK.” He chuckles darkly. “Guess that whole _ banish it from your head _ thing was another lie.”

“ANOTHER lie?!” That’s rich coming from Chris, and it shoots his mood into apoplectic. “What about when you told Marc we barely knew each other? What about this whole trip? What about what I said earlier, you never apologised for that. Bring me here, tell me you’ll stay by my side so that I don’t have a bloody panic attack in the middle of the dance floor, then poof! you’re gone. And when you do come back it’s to trick me into admitting that I like boys too.” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, a massive wave of panic sets in. His heart rams against the cage of his chest, his legs shake and give way, and with one blink his eyes are filling with tears. He takes off his glasses to avoid the inevitable smudging that will result and looks up at the ceiling. It, like everything else, is an undifferentiated mass. He cannot think of anything.

“Neil?”

“C-c-christ. I’m p-pathetic.” He feels like someone is smashing a gong inside him, again and again. _ Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. _ The colours blur before his eyes. He’s not drunk anymore, and he’s probably worse off now than when he started. It’s all he can do to stay upright, and then_—_

“Oh fuck. Neil. I’m_—_I’m sorry I can’t carry you out, but_—_”

Still unable to think, he experiences the world entirely through his senses. The tug of Chris’s strong, calloused hand, dragging him up from the floor. The world coming back into sharp focus when Chris puts his glasses on. The heat of Chris’s body as he slings an arm around him. The stupid, illicit pleasure he feels knowing who exactly is doing that.

“Want me to take you home?”

Neil nods.

“I’ll call us a cab. C’mon. It’s gonna be alright.”

* * *

Neil wakes around noon, with the faint, fuzzy knowledge that something must have gone wrong last night. But before all that, first order of the day: finding his glasses. He always keeps them on the dresser beside his bed, where could he have put them? They better not have fallen behind his bed. Or ended up somewhere stupid like in the kitchen.

He peels off his duvet to find himself in street-clothes. Must have got home late and not even bothered to change. 

…wait a minute. This is his Heaven shirt. He went to Heaven last night.

Oh God. It is far too early to confront this. He flops over and tries to go back to sleep. 

Then, all of sudden, he hears a very loud yawn from inside his flat. Nobody else yawns that loudly. Startled, he leaps out of bed and stumbles to his living room, where a blurry yet instantly recognisable figure is curled up on his sofa.

Chris rolls over to look at him. “Hey, you’re up!” The sun is filtering in through the curtains, making something on the coffee table shine bright. Chris grabs the shining thing and comes over. “Sorry. Forgot to put these somewhere you could find ‘em.” And he slides the glasses on Neil’s face.

The first thing Neil sees that day is Chris. His sweet, playful eyes, his charming smile, a bit of stubble on his chin. 

He leans in and kisses Chris softly.


	7. Intuition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss is a risky move, but some risks pay off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter, everyone! 🐇🐣🌷

_ Oh my God. What am I. What is he. Why is he. Where am I. What is happ— _

“...mmmh.”

The moan makes Neil tear away with a gasp. Reality comes hurtling back, and he finds Chris staring at him, an odd look in his eyes: hungry, questioning, demanding. His gaze is as powerful as a laser beam, and it traces a line into Neil's soul.

He bites his lip and looks up. He's still trying to process what happened. What he knows: he kissed Chris, and it promptly made the world disappear. He went utterly blank, a terrifying feeling for someone with such a sharp, active brain; he’s used to having a precise command on his thoughts. But right now he can’t remember if Chris touched him or even kissed him back. 

After a tense silence, a thought finally manages to work its way past his lips. “Sorry.”

“...right.” 

_ Ker-plunk. _ The word chills Neil from the inside, leaving a sickly familiar taste in his mouth. Last time Chris used it, Neil had just got done with his now-famous speech: On Heterosexuality, Specifically That Of One Neil Tennant. It was stupid, irrelevant and othering, but more importantly, it was completely untrue. And now, he’s shown how untrue it was. In both cases he had had an intense reaction that revealed even more intense emotions lurking under the surface, and in both Chris was able to freeze him with one word.

He’s not saying anything else, but his silence, combined with that _right_, speaks volumes as to how the kiss must have gone. That is to say, not well. With each second the danger ticks up, making him realise just how foolish and risky it was. He kissed Chris, and now he has to live with the consequences. Whether that’s a fight; a few awkward hours, days, or weeks; or months of awkwardness and tension, leading to the steady erosion of their friendship. It could happen. It’s not outside the realm of possibility. And the thought sends Neil’s heart plummeting to the pit of his stomach. This could separate them forever. He could lose out on his muse, his bandmate and his best friend, all because he wanted to turn him into his lover. Not to mention all those songs they were writing together. Bye bye, Opportunities. See you later, Nervously. 

“Chris, I’m sorry,” he says, fear and desperation tightening his voice. “I shouldn’t have done that. I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, Neil, shut up for a sec.” He goes silent again, and Neil works up the nerve to take a look at him. He seems to be gently massaging his temples, as if to calm himself. But miraculously, he doesn’t seem upset. Agitated, maybe. Conflicted. But not upset. “Don’t—be sorry about that.”

Neil’s heart begins to lift. “You...you don’t think I—”

“I think we need to have a long chat about this. Over lunch. You’re cooking.”

_ Okay_, he thinks. _ He hasn’t kicked me out yet. It’s a start. _

* * *

Neil lays two carefully breaded chicken breasts in the pan before him. Beside him is another pan with a load of asparagus, turning bright green as it sautés. Below him, a tray of oven chips is heating up. And behind him, at the kitchen table, is Chris, munching on a bowl of grapes that have been put out for him. He’s been surprisingly even-keeled about all this. No awkwardness, no fights; in fact, he’s been chitchatting away. Perhaps he’s pacified by the grapes, but at any rate it’s come as a great relief to Neil, who was certain he was a goner. No—Chris, by some miracle, is still here, in his kitchen, waiting for him to cook lunch. 

And that’s the other thing: Neil is making him a meal. Typically, they would go out or order a takeaway, very casual. Cooking for him, on the other hand, feels like a whole new level of intimacy. He’s never done this before, and he’s been pulling out all the stops to make it special. It’s why he smoothed his best tablecloth over the table, placed the grapes in an antique earthenware bowl that he never uses, and offered Chris a glass of sparkling water instead of the boring old straight-from-the-tap stuff. It’s also why he's attempting to cook a proper meal, rather than just scrap together some cheese-on-toast and call it a day.

Each detail is handled with the utmost care. The chicken is fried perfectly on both sides till it goes golden brown; the chips are pulled out once they have a nice tan on them; and the asparagus is tested at various intervals to make sure that it is _ al dente_, and cooked with butter but not garlic so that...well, there’s a reason.

He turns to see a very lazy Chris slouched in his chair, a look of smug contentment on his face. “How are you coming along with the grapes?”

“Good first course. Thumbs up. Well done.”

“Wait. You ate the entire bowl?”

“I thought that was the serving size!”

“Oh, poor baby. Spoiled his appetite.” _ I’m joking with him_, he notes. _ That’s good. _ He does up a plate for each of them, adding a bit more veg to his side and a few more chips to Chris’s. It does look amazing, all laid out on the plate like this. A perfect meal for forgiveness. And it’s been filling his kitchen with all these lovely, fattening aromas. Butter, oil, and grease. Could there be anything better?

To top it off, he drapes a white towel over his arm and bows as he presents his dish. “Your meal, sir.”

“Ooh, never been called _ sir _ before,” Chris says with a cheeky grin. He rubs his palms together, and it occurs to Neil just how young and innocent he looks when he does that. Like something out of an old cartoon. “What’d I order again?”

“A simply divine assortment, sir. Pan-fried chicken breast with a delicate Italian breadcrumb coating, asparagus cooked in the finest Sainsbury’s butter, and hand-cut fried potatoes.”

“Right, OK, we’re just going to forget the bag I saw those come out of.”

“Are you judging my cooking?” Off comes the apron, flung on the chair with haughty indignation. “Don’t act all high and mighty with me, Mr. Culinary Elitist, when I know you like to put these very chips between two slices of bread and call it a sandwich.”

“Ah, brilliant idea. Got any ketchup?”

Neil glares at him and stabs the table with his fork. “You will eat my painstakingly prepared and immaculately arranged meal and you will like it, young man.”

“All right, all right.” Chris wiggles about in his chair, clearly excited. “It does look good.”

“It will be.” Where is all this unquestioning confidence coming from? Maybe it isn’t to reassure Chris, but himself. The meal will be a success. It has to be; if not, Chris will wise up about everything, tell him he _ should _be sorry for kissing him, and leave him there, with nothing to show for his broken heart but two plates of lukewarm food. Yes, that doesn’t make any sense when he looks at it rationally. But no, he—

“Fab fab fab,” says Chris, nabbing a chip and waving it at Neil. “Look what I turned you into. The cook, the waiter, and...” A cloud passes over his face just then, turning him fretful and shy. Instantly Neil begins to worry. _ Oh no, here it comes. _

“...and?”

His voice falls to a whisper. “...my date.”

Neil’s eyes widen. _ Did I hear that right? _ Suddenly, in the bleak, dry, tumbleweedy landscape of his mind, a plant begins to grow. Another possibility. Something that’s far too joyous to hope for. 

“Or not,” adds Chris quickly, zinging Neil’s gaze back to him. “You decide.”

So he definitely heard right. And now Chris seems to be waiting for him to choose. Neil tracks the motion of his twiddling thumbs and the way he can’t look him in the eye, and it comes to him: Chris is nervous. That wasn’t a joke. There’s too much real intent behind it to be a joke. The possibilities unfold, tantalising and dangerous. Maybe—and this is probably ridiculous—he’s been spinning the same fantasy as Neil, that this _ is _ a date. Maybe he’s trying to nudge the topic on the table. 

“Well,” Neil begins, the enormity of what he’s about to ask dawning on him. No turning back now. “D’you want this to be a date?”

Chris waits a few seconds, his chest rising and falling slowly. Then he nods.

It’s such a teeny, tiny nod that at first, it barely registers. But a surge of joy is building in Neil, far beyond any rational thought, and that’s when he realises what this means. Chris nodded. He wants this to be a date. He wants them to be dating. And Neil is not about to fuck this up like last time. “Perfect. It’s a date.”

“A date date, or…?”

“A date date,” he intones, exhilarated, savouring the words like they’re the very appetising, and sadly uneaten, meal on his plate. Right. About that. “Now let’s eat, I’m starving.”

“Cheers.” The smile on Chris’s face is relieved and amazed. He cuts a small piece of chicken and holds it up, and then his grin gets even bigger. More impish, more classically Chris. “But if this is bad, that’s it, we’re over.”

“God. High expectations, much.”

“I’m looking to be a kept boy, alright_—mmmh._”

That moan. That—sounded just like the moan he heard earlier. During the kiss. He’d assumed he was the one who made it, not Chris. For a moment he sits there, slack-jawed, thinking about the last little bit of the kiss. It’s been unlocked in his mind. He can hear the soft little moan and feel the insistent tug of his fingers, and that—more than anything—is what tore him away. Not that Chris wouldn’t respond to it, but that he would.

“Surprised?” Chris asks.

Neil quickly shuts his yap. Not very dignified, looking like that. “No. Well, yes. I don’t know. I got distracted.”

“Try some. It’s great,” Chris says, although it comes out more like _ try shum, ish great _ ‘cause he’s talking with his mouth full. Again. It’s a telltale sign that Chris approves, though, so he can’t be too upset. “After this, mate? You an’ me are gettin’ married.”

“That good, eh,” Neil replies, trying to ignore the strange yearning in his gut at the word _ married. _

“Yes. Don’t gloat.”

“Hey, I got a marriage proposal out of you, I’m entitled to gloat a little. From what I’ve heard, Chris Lowe never settles down.” Oops. He can hear the question in his head: _ who’d you hear that from? _ And the answer would be Marc, not Chris, who has always kept the details of his love life very private. They’re tiptoeing into dangerous territory here. 

Thankfully, Chris just shrugs. “Never found Mr. Right. Like I said, I’m looking to be a kept man. Only, all me mates are as broke as I am and I’m way too lazy to be a rent boy.” He bats his eyelashes. “D’you know anyone who can help me out?”

Neil laughs and finally gets to work on his own meal. “I do, in fact. Someone who’s tall, dark, and...well, moderately decent-looking. He’ll take you to all the poshest motels and all the finest diners. He’ll even splurge on a ten-pound bottle of sparkling wine and pretend it’s champagne.”

“Ten pound!” Chris exclaims, picking up one long stalk of asparagus and pointing it at Neil. “Where can I meet him? What’s his name?”

“Starts with an N, ends with an L.”

“Brilliant. Looking forward to meeting this Nigel chap.” This earns Chris a hearty slap on the arm. “Ow!”

“Oh don’t be such a prissy-knickers, that was a little love tap. Don’t tell me it hurt.”

“It did! Somebody with no athletic ability whatsoever should not be able to hit like that.”

How dare he. The nerve of him. The cheek of him to imply such a thing. Neil opens his mouth to protest, but then...no, he’s right.

“Ha. Knew it.” Chris turns the stalk upside down and catches it in his mouth like a fish. He has no manners, this boy, none at all, and Neil tuts at him disapprovingly, enjoying every minute. There’s something very teenage, very yobbish about him—which, if Neil’s being honest, is part of the appeal. He likes the whole “bad-boy” aspect. He’s always been interested in blokes like that, being such a perennial goody-good himself. 

“You should take it as a compliment,” Chris adds. “I don’t even like asparagus.”

Neil tries to keep his face as stern as possible, although he knows a smile is creeping up on him. “Manners, young man.”

“Thass the second time you’ve called me that. I think it turns you on.”

“Oh...rubbish.”

“Can’t call it rubbish if it’s true.” He grabs another stalk and starts making a very lewd motion with it, never keeping his eye off Neil. “Tell me more about this Nigel.”

“I will, after you’re done wanking that piece of asparagus.”

“Oh this? This isn’t wanking. I wank with my left.” He pauses just long enough for Neil to become flustered. “Go on.”

A stupid, furious blush rises to his cheeks, and before he knows it he’s smacked Chris again. “I am trying to have a serious conversation and you insist on—”

“You’re cute when you blush.”

_ He’s flirting_, Neil realises. _ He’s always been flirting. _ The jokes. The subtle glances. The touching. The hints about his sex life. Chris hasn’t been mercilessly mocking him about his crush; he’s been trying to suss it out. And sure, he’s a tease. No doubt. He enjoys winding people up—he’s done so plenty of times to Neil’s poor, hapless colleagues. But that’s just his natural way of communicating, and it doesn’t make his overtures any less sincere. He wouldn’t be calling Neil “cute” just to be cruel. That’s not in his nature. It’s more like the kid at school who goes and pulls the pigtails of the girl he fancies. And there’s enough evidence of real interest for Neil to be confident about this.

“Thanks,” he says, scritching his nails against his palms. He’s daring himself to flirt back. “You, on the other hand…”

“Yeah?”

“...oh, this is bad.” If he adds a disclaimer, maybe it won’t sound so cheesy. “You don’t need to blush. Ahem. Right. Nigel. Well, he’s a writer…” It strikes him as enormously odd to be talking about himself in the third person. After this, he knows he could never write an ad in the personals. “He likes music, dogs and the theatre. And he loves good food, both making and eating it.. He’s…” He tries to think of the “good” adjectives people have used for him. “...generous, caring and witty.”

“Sounds like a catch.”

“But here’s the thing,” Neil says, sitting straight in his chair. Talking about himself like this may be weird, but it makes some things a hell of a lot easier. “He only just realised he likes men. And he’s a bit scared of what this means for him. So he may not be the ideal boyfriend for you, at this moment in time. He may be a complete cock-up at this.”

“Oh.”

“Still interested?”

The next thing Chris does is quite unbelievable. He reaches for Neil’s hand and holds it, running his thumb over the surface. Neil’s heart gives one big kick and then pounds, with fear and worry but also aliveness and excitement. “Let’s give it a try, yeah?”

_ Boom. Boom. Boom. _ There goes the steady throb of his heartbeat. It’s telling him to do the right thing this time. “Yeah.”

* * *

After lunch, Neil checks his mental to-do list. Now that he’s taken care of his all-important hunger (first things first is always food), he’s beginning to feel stale and itchy in last night’s clothes. He could use a refresh—and so could Chris, come to think of it. He did sleep over. So, after taking a long, luxurious shower and giving his teeth a good brush, Neil lets Chris do the same. 

Oh, to be clean again! A true delight if ever there was one. While Chris is in the shower, Neil pores over his wardrobe, choosing his outfit for the day. He wants something soft, comfortable, warm, and touchable. After a few moments, he opts for a simple grey jumper and his favourite trousers. They’re not at all fashion forward, and they’ve been washed so many times that they’ve faded from navy to nothing, but they fit beautifully and feel fantastic on. He strips and gets dressed, each new item giving him another dose of humanity. By the time he puts on a belt, he’s ready to face the world. Even if the world is just Chris.

Flinging himself on his bed (he likes doing this, it’s very Oscar Wilde of him), he curls up and listens to the warm rush of water. Slowly, another sound emerges: Chris is singing. Nothing with words, mind you, just a clear, simple melody. Soft. His voice is one of the loveliest things about him, but he’s always been too shy to sing in front of Neil. So Neil is savouring this moment of stolen intimacy, thinking about the extraordinary new reality it represents. He is listening to his…boyfriend sing in the shower. _ Boyfriend? _ Is that right? Can he think that? At any rate, he can’t unthink it, and the word’s still got an incredible power over him. Like before, it makes his skin grow hot and his stomach curl up in nervous anticipation. But this time it also puts a beaming smile on his face, one he can’t reason away. 

He hears the shower turn off and the door crack open, banging against the wall. Rookie mistake. Then Chris asks, “I don’t really wanna change back into what I was wearing. Can I just borrow your clothes instead?”

The smile turns into a giggle. Chris in his clothes? Their senses of style couldn’t be farther apart, and he’s well aware of this as he gets up and heads for his closet again. (Funny, he just came out and now he's going back in.) Flicking through his shirts and trousers, he gets lost in a sea of _ no's_. Absolutely nothing here would be typical Chris-wear on any given day. 

But then again, maybe that's the point. First, he picks a striped shirt and a pair of pressed black trousers. No. Wait. At the back of his closet, an old pair of dungarees from the ‘70s, with flared legs. Then again, with the dungarees, what would look better? Ooh, maybe this purple turtleneck...no, that’s far too warm. And on second thought, the dungarees won’t be very easy to get out of, will they. Too needlessly complicated. _ No, no, no... _ Soon there is a rather large pile of clothes on the floor. Fine. Go with the first option. Ooh, okay, keep the trousers but pair them with this little white polo shirt he found in his dresser. He bought it with the idea that he’d suddenly become sporty and develop a major interest in tennis or golf. Neither of which happened. So the white has stayed pristine, and it will do wonders for Chris's rich winter colouring. Then a belt, some socks, and he’s done.

“Can I use your blow-dryer?” Chris asks.

“Yes, yes, and I’ve got your clothes. Here.” He yanks open the door, not looking at Chris, and shoves the outfit at him. He’s aware of how absurd this is, that he doesn’t want to see his (quote-unquote) boyfriend in the nude, but there’s still a residual part of him that feels guilty for having harboured the desire in the first place. _ It won’t hurt you to look_, he thinks, and attempts to meet Chris’s eyes. His hair is slicked back against his head, dark and curly, smelling of Neil’s shampoo. His skin is slightly pink—the shower’s always hotter the second time round—and dotted with beads of moisture, and Neil tries not to think about kissing away each perfect droplet. Below is his blurry, half-naked body, kept out of focus, although Neil can see the smooth, sloped planes of his bare shoulders. His throat constricts, and the demon at the back of his brain answers: _ yes, it will. _

The moment seems suspended in time, until finally, Chris takes the pile of clothes and examines it. He licks his lips and smiles. “I notice there’s no underwear. Was that a deliberate choice?”

“Oh, just go commando!”

As he stalks off in a pretend huff, he hears the door shut behind him. He flops down on his bed and waits. Soon, he hears the familiar whir of the blow-dryer, and the same simple melody hummed on top of it. He listens and luxuriates, thinking back on how beautiful the day has been so far. Every single one of his senses has been given something to enjoy. 

Except for his hands, maybe.

Then, Chris comes out, standing at the doorway for a sec. _ Hello again, mod boy. _ Of course, it’s mod-by-way-of-Neil and not mod-by-way-of-Chris, which means that not all of the details are in place and the shirt’s the teensiest bit big. But the end result still tugs at Neil’s heart, the same way Chris is tugging at his collar. 

“I look a prat,” he says.

“With all due respect, you’ve never been more wrong in your life.”

Chris grins and comes over, joining Neil on the bed. His hair’s all done up too, in a rather lovely quiff. He looks even better than usual, and Neil wonders whether he did it for him. Seeing Chris dressed in his clothes, smelling of him, gives him such a strong, strange yearning that he can feel it in his toes.

“So,” Neil says. “Let’s talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only thing that's canon here is that Chris genuinely enjoys chips-and-ketchup sandwiches. I couldn't not put that in.


	8. Incarnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The talk is not the main event. (wink wink)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wanna be in the same mindset I was in while writing this, lie back in a warm, sunlit room, put on the album _The Pearl_ by Harold Budd and Brian Eno, and relax.

The room fills with a conspicuous silence. It seems that enough talking has been done already. Indeed, the last couple of days have been filled with nothing but words. Words, words, words, words, words. Between them they’ve spoken a dictionary—no, an encyclopedia. And there isn’t much left on Neil’s tongue. Besides, his mouth could be put to better use than mere talk.

The evidence of this is right in front of him. Chris flops onto his back, the afternoon sun spilling over his face. Below, his shirt comes loose and rides up, revealing a tantalising glimpse of skin. Transfixed, Neil rolls onto his stomach, daring himself to come closer. A delightfully teenage excitement stirs inside him. Chris is in his bed, and they’re about to do _ something_. Since when has it taken him five months to get any girl in his bed? Not that he’s Casanova or anything, but it usually doesn’t take quite this long. And yet, that’s probably what’s making him so ecstatic: the wait. Over the months, he’s slowly, gradually fallen for Chris. He’s suffered through countless nights of fantasies just like this, doubtful they could ever come true. Each day spent with Chris gave him something new to add, another piece of kindling for the fire. Now, as he shuffles closer and closer, the flames are roaring in his head. 

At last, he settles himself down next to Chris. The line of his body pressed up against Neil’s is almost too much to bear, a heavenly torture, God and Satan rolled into one. He knows that there’s so much more men can do with each other than simply lie in a bed together, side by side. But the very potential of that thought is what stops him. He looks up at Chris, wanting some sort of confirmation that this is OK.

Chris seems to get it. Biting his lip, he grabs Neil’s hand and brings it to his face, guiding it down the smooth contour. The motion sets off a few nerves, but nothing near what he felt last night; less panic, more anticipation. In retrospect, the club would have been a terrible place for anything to happen, all dark, loud, and chaotic. He wasn’t in the right state of mind either. It’s nice to be doing this in the privacy of his own home, sober, and knowing that Chris wants him. He can see it in Chris’s face. Beneath all the sarcasm and bravado, there’s a very appealing sincerity to him sometimes. It surfaces in quiet moments like this. Rarely in his speech, but often in his actions.

Action. There it is. That’s how they need to communicate. Closing his eyes and ignoring the nerves, Neil lifts Chris’s chin and places a soft kiss on his lips. Then he pulls away, searching for a reaction.

Chris blinks sleepily. His eyes are warm and dark and affectionate, and his mouth is curving into a smile. “You can do that again, you know.”

A tingling heat runs over Neil’s body. He dips and captures Chris’s mouth again, and this time Chris slides a hand into his hair and tugs him close. _ He wants this. He wants me. And I don’t need to hide anymore. _ There are no words to describe how it feels to think that. Joy isn’t enough. Gratification isn’t enough. It’s simply beyond compare, and as the kiss deepens and darkens, it uncovers something he’s never shown before.

All human beings have different selves, and Neil’s got plenty: his work self, his writing self, his family self, his nature self. The darkest is his night self, and not just because it’s usually past 11pm when he makes an appearance. Night Neil is a wholly hedonistic creature, a dirty little satyr whose only purpose is to satisfy a naturally massive libido. He’s all cock, in other words. And his very favourite person is Chris. What a perfect new thing to lust over: young, fresh-faced, irreverent, and male. That last part is especially important. Out of all his selves, Night Neil was the only one thrilled to find out he could fancy a man. It’s greatly expanded his scroll of fantasies, and given a lovely hint of transgression to his nightly escapades. 

Bully for him, but what of his other selves? They’ve all begun to loathe him. When once they just saw him as a nuisance, now they cringe thinking of his behaviour. After Neil lets him out, the next day is inevitably spent stumbling out of his reverie, thinking _ how did I fuck Chris last night _ as he’s phoning him for coffee. Or trying to repress him as they mull over their songs, many of which were penned with at least a touch of that nocturnal mindset. And Chris has the nerve to say he should add more sex to them! If only he knew. Frankly, Neil’s ashamed of him, most of the time. 

But Chris, incredibly, is coaxing it right out of him. It’s not just his good looks, or the sound of his voice, or any of the things that lured Neil before, although that laid the groundwork. It’s the way he fuels the fire. With everything that Neil does and then thinks _ oh, that’s too much, what if he_—he thrills in it, and does something of his own. 

For example: when Neil first moans into his mouth, he moans right back and tightens his grip on Neil’s hair. Permission to be as loud as he likes. Which is good, because then Chris’s hand slips under his jumper, loosening it from its prim and careful tuck. _ Is he gonna—oh, _ ** _yes._ ** Chris has found the one area guaranteed to make him moan. His back is a primo erogenous zone, but few have ever bothered to caress it, and he’s never been bold enough to ask. But Chris is far less inhibited, and when Neil feels the slow glide of his fingertips over his spine, he has to break away, it’s so electric. It makes his cheeks burn with arousal, and draws an unearthly sound from his lips. Luckily, Chris isn’t put off by that; he simply drags those fingertips again, cool against his skin, and works loose the demon inside. The lightness of his touch is maddening, and it sparks a question: is it because he’s nervous, or because he knows it’ll drive Neil into a frenzy? Either way, it’s doing a number on Neil, who can only regain his senses when Chris stops. As the last tendril of pleasure sinks into his spine, he and Chris gaze at each other, smiling without knowing why. Oh, God. That smile. It pulls on the invisible string between Neil's heart and his cock, making them both stir at once. _ More_.

Time to adjust a few things. Backing away, Neil sits up, takes off his glasses and places them on the nightstand. No need for these anymore, they’ve been fogging up anyway with the heat of Chris’s breath. Next on the list is his jumper, which is peeled off without a second thought. At first, it’s merely practical; even on a cold winter’s night, acrylic is a terrible fabric to be wrapped up in, and he wants to be touched without any barriers. But then, as Chris’s eyes linger on him, it becomes yet another turn-on. Even through his myopic blur, he can tell that he’s being checked out, and it thrills every one of his selves—especially the satyr, who decides now’s the time to make an appearance. He lifts his chin, puts his body on display, and lets Chris have a good look. 

“You’re not shy, are you,” Chris says. 

No. Not one bit. And that comment is enough to pull Neil back to reality. He’s not some buff beach-blond bloke who can get away with parading himself like a top model, and it’s ridiculous to pretend he is. “I’m not usually like this,” he replies, looking down. “You—you did something to me.”

“Did I?”

“Well yeah, of course. I didn’t know I was g—”

He stops.

He can’t deny that this little tryst has turned him on far more than any of his encounters with girls. He also can’t deny that his fantasies have, at times, extended beyond the sexual—to building a life with Chris, and doing everything he can to keep him happy. But _ gay? _ It… doesn’t feel wrong. It’s been running along the rivers of his subconscious for a while, and he’s seen it manifest in his music. Many of his love songs have begun to assume a decidedly male subject. At first he attributed it to Chris, who would help out with his lyrics from time to time. The influence must be coming from him, right? Even though he rarely talked about his love life and the lyrics he gave Neil were never about that specifically. It was always “here’s a couple words, write a tune around this.” No, Neil was the one who took those words and turned them into songs that seemed to be naturally addressed to other men. Or, really, one man in particular. In a way, the influence did come from Chris; if not for him, half the songs inside him wouldn’t have come out, and neither would he.

As he sits there, mouth agape, the word rattles about in his head. Cutting it off only made it more obvious, and he’s sure Chris knows. It’s a stupidly easy crossword clue. Three letters, starts with G: an adjective meaning “happy” or “bent”. What he doesn’t know is how Chris will react. The best would be if he just pretended it never happened—

“What was that?” Chris asks, and Neil begins to panic. “Say it again for me?”

“I deliberately cut myself off, thank you.”

“Uh-uh. I wanna know.” He crawls over to Neil, and when his face comes into view, it’s etched with a dark and sultry desire. “I didn’t know I was g…”

It would be so easy to deny everything. Or to put another word there. Problem is, he can’t come up with anything that would fit—not with Chris so close, his eyes and lips and body making it difficult to think. And trying to lie again seems like an even worse idea. _ Never tell only part of the story._

So he takes a deep breath and tells the truth. “Gay. I didn’t know I was gay.”

There goes another piece of his soul. Feeling his cheeks inflame, he paws at the bed for his jumper. When he lays his hand on it, he pulls it into his lap and starts petting it, trying to soothe himself. He can’t bring himself to look at Chris. His ever-helpful mind is ready at the dial with a couple of potential responses: _ you don’t have any right to call yourself that_, or _pshhhhh, it was fucking obvious to anyone with half a brain cell._

“OK, that’s what I thought,” Chris says, his voice disarmingly gentle. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Neil works up the courage to look up, and he’s surprised to see a smile, sly and self-effacing. “I s’pose I should be good about this, but…”

“Oh God.”

“No, no, don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. Well, it is bad, for me.”

Neil shakes his head, confused and more than a little peeved at Chris’s classic beating-around-the-bush. “I don’t know _ what _you’re talking about.”

“It…kinda turned me on.”

Now he’s even more confused. “Did it? Why?”

Chris climbs on top of him and lays a hot, all-too-brief kiss on his lips. “I dunno, really,” he says, soft and low and intimate, stirring up a great yearning in Neil. “And by that I mean, probably somethin’ terribly Freudian that it’d take me a lifetime to figure out. Who knows why any of us find anything hot?”

“Are we getting philosophical? Here? Really?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Chris is grinning. They’ve slipped into one of their favourite games: questions. The rules are pretty simple: one asks a question, and the other just fires one back. From there, the game could go on forever, if they let it: an endless series of volleys back and forth, till one of them fumbles and misses the ball. It’s actually proved to be very enlightening, as Neil’s been able to learn a lot about Chris this way. They both love this game. Entire days have been spent in question-mode, their brains lit up, trying to impress the other.

Usually, it’s Neil who loses. But today he thinks he’ll win. “Nothing, in theory. But isn’t it better to be touching each other than it is to be debating the meaning of life?”

“Why can’t we do both?” Chris asks, his smile turning impish. His hand is snaking down between them, pulling out the jumper and tossing it away. Now, Neil’s whole chest is bare, and he gasps as Chris takes full advantage, slowly brushing his nipple. It feels unbelievably good, and very unfair, as Chris hasn’t taken a single thing off himself. Clever bastard. “And since when was Freud a philosopher?”

“Fuck, Chris…I never…said he was. Putting words in my mouth, who do you think you are?”

“That doesn’t count!”

“Aha!” Neil crows. “I win. Me. And don’t you forget it.”

Chris cups his ear, wincing. “Ow. Could you repeat that, please? I don’t think the people at the end of the street heard you.”

“Sorry. But I still win, you know. Oh…hell…” That devilish thumb is playing with his nipple again. Further down, an even more sinful thumb is beginning to drag across his abdomen, just above the waistband of his boxers. At that, Night Neil knocks politely on the door. _ Hello. Missed me? _

“No,” says Chris, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “I win. ‘Coz you just told me you’re gay, an’ that I did it.” He shifts, hooking his leg under Neil’s and settling into a slightly different position. Even closer, somehow, if that were possible. Neil shivers, reminded of all those times their legs brushed underneath the table and he tried to pretend he felt nothing. It’s so good not to pretend. 

To celebrate, he pulls Chris to him and kisses him hard, slipping a hand under his shirt to stroke his chest. It’s hot, flat, a bit of chest hair—familiar and unfamiliar, all at once. It feels like no other chest he’s felt, and exactly like his own. His own. His own kind. His own sex. That’s Night Neil speaking. He loves to repeat things, creating tantric mantras that compel him into coming. And, surprise surprise, he seems to have a keen sense of what men like. _ Go for it. Touch his nipple. Ohhh, yeah. See how he shakes? He’s into you. Go on, give it another tweak. _ His instructions are actually doing a remarkable job, and Chris, steely, too-cool Chris, is sinking into him.

Trembling, he pulls away and shakes his head. “It’s me, y’know?” he says, with an edge of hysteria. “Me. I’m a bit plain, not tall or anything, naff haircut, and you…”

He can't be saying what Neil thinks he's saying. “What about me?”

“Pssssh, you’re well out of my league.”

That is such a patently obvious reversal of the truth that it almost makes him indignant. “Oh yeah. Of course. Me, the big nerd. Bad hair, bad teeth, bad eyes—”

“Bad eyes? Neil, look at me.” He does, and they both shiver. “I love your eyes. They’re so…" Chris trails off, panting. "Ugh. Never mind. This is why you write the lyrics.”

Incapable of believing a single word out of Chris’s mouth, Neil prattles on uselessly, until something finally makes him go quiet. Something big and hard and hot, pressing into the crook of his thigh. Something he’s got too. _ Your own. Your own kind. Your own sex. Haven’t you always wanted to go to bed with someone of your own sex? _

It’s like shoving him into a sauna and locking the door. His heart palpitates, he sweats all over, and he feels pure, awakened and alive. Stomping down his anxiety, Night Neil leaps up, loud and triumphant, and takes hold of his soul. “And you,” he growls, hearing the satyr’s voice for the first time. “Been wanting your hot little body against me for months now. You’ve no idea. Every time you lick your lips, every time you say the word _ Ealing_, every time you nudge me or tweak my hair or do anything, I’m—”

And then he’s shuddering and crying out and gripping Chris’s arms. Powerful shocks are going through his body. For a few seconds he’s buoyed by the sheer euphoria of the moment: Icarus gliding in the sky on feathered wings. But everyone knows what eventually happened to him, and soon Neil is suffering a similar fate. He crashes hard, with nothing to show for his triumph but a hot, sticky mess running down his legs.

Chris starts to laugh. Gone is the magic, gone is the myth. He is merely a twenty-seven-year-old man who just shot a load in his pants.

“I’m glad you find this so funny,” he says, still recovering. After a few moments, he lets go of Chris’s arms and leans back, letting out a sigh. He’s trying to work out all the shit he has to do now. The last time this happened was… god, fourteen? Fifteen? Was it a shower first, or wash the stains out? “You’re not the one who has to clean himself up now.”

“Wow. _ Wow. _”

“Will you shut up?” he exclaims, then immediately feels guilty. But Chris’s reaction is really not helping. His words are stinging him like poison darts, leaching into his skin and infusing him with shame. Oh yes, shame—the icky underbelly of his lust. Night Neil feeds on it, so it can never truly leave him. And there are so many things to be ashamed of here! Not only did he manage to come in his pants like a fucking teenager, and not only did he do it in front of Chris—he did it _ because _ of Chris. Because of a man. His desire for a man—his sounds, his smell, his skin—brought on an orgasm so strong that his legs are still pulsing. And while he understands rationally that there’s nothing wrong with a homosexual experience, emotionally it’s another matter.

“I’m sorry,” he adds, when he notices Chris’s face falling. “Just…feeling a lot of things right now. Embarrassment, mostly.” Which is true enough. It’s not the whole truth, but it’ll do. Seems uncouth to talk about the real emotion with someone who’s long since stopped feeling any kind of shame about the way he lives. Oh, there’s another thing. Chris is barely twenty-two and fully settled in his sexuality. Neil, on the other hand, is approaching thirty. Isn’t it sort of pathetic to be so conflicted about this, at his age? Won’t Chris roll his eyes? 

Well, he must look pathetic, because Chris leans in and lays a hand on his arm. “Okay, here’s what you do. Where d’you keep your underwear?”

“Top drawer of my dresser,” Neil says, gesturing in that direction with a lazy hand. The bed dips, and Chris briefly disappears, muttering _ every time I say the word Ealing?… _

“D’you need a new pair of trousers, too?” he asks.

“Um…maybe?”

When he returns, he plops the pile of clothes on Neil’s lap. Fresh boxers, fresh trousers. “Here. Now go wash ‘em in the sink with cold water. Not hot. _ Never _ hot. I speak from experience.”

“Ex…perience?”

“Long, sad story.” Chris affects a sob. “And they were my favourite pair, too…all covered in little synths…”

Neil cracks a smile despite himself. “How do I ever know you’re telling the truth, Chris Lowe.”

“Isn’t that what you like about me?”

“Are we playing Questions right now?”

“No, because right now you’ve got a job to do. Have at ‘er.”

Funny, it’s usually Neil who does the bossing around. But he doesn’t mind too much this time. Chris has been surprisingly good about this, considering. Apart from the cackling, which was probably inevitable, he’s been kind and patient and told Neil what to do. Which is exactly what his frazzled mind needed. 

He brings the pile to the kitchen sink, strips, and sets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, poor Neil. I never make it very easy for him, do I. Don't worry, the loose ends will definitely be tied up at some point. I can't make him get everything he wants!
> 
> Also, I stole the concept of the "questions" game from _It's Kind of a Funny Story_, still one of my favourite books ever. If it sounded familiar to you, that's why :)


	9. Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after, Neil does some self-reflection, and sets up another date.

Three hours later, and Chris is gone, leaving a whole lot of inner turmoil in his wake. Neil hardly knows where to begin. He’s spent the last thirty minutes tossing and turning in bed, trying to sleep, or get his mind calm, or something. His thoughts are coming hard and fast and he can barely keep up. Yet when he forces his mind to go down a particular track, it snakes away in a matter of milliseconds. So it takes far longer than it should for the very obvious solution to come to him.

_Why don’t I just write about it?_

Perfect. He can pour it all out on the page. What happened today, what he should have done, etc. etc. Or he could go for a dialogue; sometimes that’s easier than doing a play-by-play of the day’s events. Essentially, this entails writing out a conversation with whatever it is that’s on his mind. Could be anything. Someone in his life. Someone from his past. An abstract concept. A part of his body. A part of his soul.

At first, he wants to talk to his shame, which hasn’t left him for a minute. But after he gets his journal and starts that particular conversation, it goes nowhere. Not a single word is put down. The empty page mocks him, and he’s forced to confront the obvious: his shame is much too big to be addressed. It’s like God in that respect. And hey, it probably came from God, come to think of it. Though he stopped going to church years ago, he still carries around with him a very Catholic sense of the world, and it manifests in a number of ways. A strong sense of right and wrong. An inherent feeling of unworthiness, and the desire to prove himself worthy. A compulsion to confess—that’s part of why he keeps a diary, for God’s sake. Hell, even the very bitchy side of him is derived from the idea that others just aren’t doing things the right way. _They won’t be going to Heaven_, he’s caught himself thinking more than once.

And yet, he did. Go to Heaven, that is. Funny how that works. That place, with its flashy lights, cheap drinks and great tunes, is far more appealing than the godly Heaven could ever be. Not to mention its clientele. In Catholic terms, they’d all be filthy sinners, but most of the guys he met were perfectly nice, average blokes—even the pop stars. Clearly, his current belief system is in need of an update.

He looks down at his journal, where he sees the dark ink-spot that would have turned into his first line. There’s still a nagging sense that he should try dialoguing again, but it seems hopeless. _Aw, forget it. Take it up later. You know what’d be a better idea? A nice, long wank._

His skin bristles, and he snatches two pens: one red, the other black. Now he knows exactly who he wants to talk to.

> January 10, 1982
> 
> I’ve got a bone to pick with you.
> 
> Oh. Hey there, hot stuff. I bet you’ve got a bone for—
> 
> Don’t fucking start with that now, you humiliated me.
> 
> How? I had a great time.
> 
> Maybe you did, but everyone else didn’t. Everyone else hates you.
> 
> Why?
> 
> Coz you’re a massive bloody pervert who can’t go one minute without turning an innuendo out of something he’s said. You do unspeakable things to him at night. And now, as soon as I get my hands on him, you come out and ruin everything.
> 
> Him. Do you, by any chance, mean Chris?
> 
> Yes. I was hoping you wouldn’t make me name him, although I know you love rolling his name around in your filthy mouth. Well, fine. It is him. Happy?
> 
> Very. Chris, Chris, Chris, Chris, Chris. He’s my faaaaaave.
> 
> Good for you.
> 
> You know he likes you, right?
> 
> Well even if he does, he certainly won’t like <strike>you</strike> me anymore. He had to go finish himself off in the toilet ‘coz of you. I hope you know that.
> 
> Oh, that is hilarious.
> 
> No it isn’t! It’s embarrassing. I hate you.
> 
> You can’t hate me. I’m your most natural self.
> 
> Sure I can. And where do you get off? You’re not my natural self. That’s my work me. That’s my friends me.
> 
> Bullshit. I’m deeper than that. I’m the part of you that you try to repress. I’m the truth that you hide in your day-to-day life. Hell, I’m the reason most of your other selves exist. When you’re in a meeting and get side-tracked because you’re thinking about what it’d be like if Chris were right there sucking you off under the—
> 
> SHUT UP. That’s enough out of you.

Thoroughly unsettled, he shuts his journal and tosses his pens away. He’s going to have to pick this back up at some point, but right now, he’s too upset.

_And hungry_, he thinks, as his stomach lets off a very loud growl. If anything, Hungry Neil is probably his most natural self. At least there he’s got something in common with Chris. The thought finally makes him crack a smile, and off he goes to prepare his cheese toastie.

* * *

The next day is Monday, and thank God he’s got a proper job to go to. Takes his mind off things. A few calls, a few meetings, and he’s back to normal. All things considered, he’s feeling pretty decent: calm, level-headed, even a bit giggly. With a good night’s sleep (he went to bed at nine), last night doesn’t seem so bad. Yeah, it was embarrassing, but so what? He can’t change what happened, and now he’s remembering all the good parts too. Like when Chris first slid his hand into his hair and pulled him close, what a joy that was. Or when they played questions, or when Chris said he loved his eyes. At the time, his sexual side was so strong that he couldn’t interpret the encounter on anything more than a carnal level, but that… was kind of romantic, wasn’t it. No wonder he began babbling. If Chris phoned him now and said just that, _I love your eyes_, he would still turn into a nervous wreck.

But when 12:30 rolls around and he doesn’t get that typical lunch-break call, he starts to panic, and the _so what_ turns into _what now_. There were about as many bad sides to yesterday as there were good, and the cup begins to look decidedly half-empty. He sits back, thinking.

The memory returns, sharp and vivid in his mind. When he came back to the bedroom after washing his stuff, Chris was sat on his bed, frowning. They talked, and eventually, with a lot of prompting, it came out that he’d taken care of himself while Neil was away. He tried to play it off like it was fine, but Neil could tell he wasn’t satisfied with how things had gone. Neither of them were. And so the day had ended on a bit of a bum note; after a round of songwriting that proved wildly unsuccessful, Chris left, clearly in one of his “moods”. Neil stood at the door for a long while, his own mood darkening. Which led him to the bed, where he once again flung himself down, deep in thought. Then came his botched attempt at a dialogue with Night Neil, followed by a cheese toastie that was so burnt it could not possibly be consumed. Failure upon failure upon failure upon failure. It was almost comical, each failure begetting the next like something out of the bloody Bible. At least he’d slept well.

But what good is that if Chris won’t ring him? By the time the gang comes back at 1:30, the phone is still untouched, and Neil’s worries have tripled. They continue to multiply throughout the afternoon, hour by hour, minute by minute. 2:30. 3:30. 4:30. And then 5:00, the end of his workday. In a way, it’s almost a relief, ‘coz now he doesn’t have to spend the rest of the day in prolonged agony, wondering _will he call?_ He stops. _Will he call. My goodness, I’ve been acting like a teenage girl._ There is that side to him too: young, naive, hopelessly pining. And no doubt dreadfully unattractive to anyone he wishes to date.

Once he's home, he lets out his bachelor side as a sort of retaliation. For supper, he bungs a bunch of odd ingredients into a pan and calls it a stir fry. The end result, if not exactly fine dining, is surprisingly tasty, and he sits down in front of the telly with his broccoli-tuna-lemon-sprouts-brown rice thing and feels quite satisfied with himself.

And then the phone goes off.

He puts down his meal and dashes to the kitchen, getting it on the second ring. “Hello?!”

“Good evening. My name is Dorothy, calling on behalf of Rigby’s Duct Cleaning, and we’d like to take a moment to touch base with you and ask how satisfied you are with your current—”

Before Dorothy can finish her sentence, Neil’s slammed down the receiver. Bloody telesales agents, always getting in the way of a good stir fry.

Another ring.

“Terribly sorry sir, it seems your line dropped out for a sec.” It’s the same voice again. “As I was saying, we’d like to know if you’re satisfied with your—”

“Very. Thank you!” _Slam._

He’s just about to put another bite in his mouth when the phone rings one more time.

“Listen, Dorothy,” he carefully informs her, before she can get another word out. “If I’m dissatisfied with the current state of my ducts, you’ll be the first to know. In the meantime, you know that scrap of paper with my name and number on it? Well, it is awfully cold these days, it’ll make a lovely bit of kindling. I don’t suppose you’ve got a fireplace, do you?”

A pause. Then, an instantly recognisable laugh.

“Ohhhhhhh, Chris, I’m going to kill you.”

“Why? I didn’t do anything.” That’s true, he just had unbelievably bad timing. “But you’d like me to burn your number?”

“No, nonono, Chris—”

“Don’t you mean Dorothy?”

“Fuck. Off.” Another burst of giggles comes from the receiver, and it’s contagious. Soon they’re both laughing, and a lovely feeling of calm settles in Neil’s chest. “In all seriousness, how are you?”

“Brilliant. But you do realise I’m never letting you forget this.”

“I know, I know. Hey, why are you ringing me now? What happened to twelve-thirty?” He winces. So much for playing hard-to-get.

“Wanted to set up our next date. I woulda rang you then, but I figured, you work in an office, your coworkers can probably hear you, yeah?”

“…yeah.” _Shit._ That makes perfect sense. His coworkers are already nosy about his “girlfriend”; if they heard any trace of that conversation, they’d pester him about it for days. Especially if they knew who was on the other line. It didn’t occur to him that Chris was being considerate, not cruel, in saving his call for later. The feeling in his chest splits in three: a thrill at the word “date”, a sense of warmth at Chris’s kindness, and a bit of sadness that he has to worry about this sort of thing now. Before, he and Chris were merely friends, and he didn’t have to hide anything. But now—

“Neil?”

“What?” Oh, right. He’s gone quiet. If Chris were around, he’d be able to tell that Neil was Deep in Thought, but it’s rather hard to convey that over the phone. “Sorry. Thinking.”

“You’re always thinking.”

“So are you, you know. We all are.”

“That’s deep, man. Tell me another one.”

“Look, you called me to set up a date, didn’t you?” Neil snaps, trying to keep a leash on his stroppy side. “Where and when?”

“Wow. Erm. I was thinking…Saturday? Is that too soon?”

Ha. Too soon? There’s no such thing. It is heartening to hear that Chris’s got some of the same worries he has, though, about coming on too strong and all that. “No, Saturday’s good. What’d you have in mind? Dinner and a movie?” _We’ve already done that_, he thinks, smiling. Maybe they’ve been dating this whole time and didn’t know it.

“Erm, more like…shopping…”

“Shopping!” Neil exclaims, stunned to the point of letting out a laugh. “Is that what you normally do on a date with a bloke?”

“I guess…”

“You guess?”

“Well I don’t know, you think of an idea! I’ve never done this before!”

He’s taken on the flustered tone of voice that normally accompanies a very red face, and as Neil pictures it, he goes soft and warm. At the same time, Chris’s words are slowly catching up with him. _I’ve never done this before_. Cross another thing off the list of assumptions. At first glance, Chris seemed so self-assured that Neil assumed he’d have a ton of past boyfriends. But if he barely knows how to ask a guy out, well…likely not. He is only twenty-two, after all, and even with gay bars and all that, the dating pool’s probably more like a wading pool, certainly not the Olympic-sized behemoth of the heterosexual world. And he can be rather shy, too. So perhaps they're both coming to this from a place of relative inexperience, which is quite comforting.

“No, no, shopping is perfect,” Neil says, twirling the phone cord round his finger. At the back of his head, an image begins to develop: the two of them cruising down Carnaby Street, three bags on each arm, looking oh so fab in their new duds. Never mind that Neil can barely afford a single suit on his salary and Chris is in permanent overdraft. They’d make it work.

“Oh, thank God. I was worried for a sec.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, my goodness, Chris. Hang on…” He presses the HOLD button and goes and grabs his dish from the living room, hoping to sneak in a few bites whenever Chris is talking. “Sorry, I was having dinner when you called. Mind if I eat?”

“Ooh, what’re you having?”

Neil looks down at his creation and decides it’s best not to elaborate. “Food. Anyway, what kind of shopping were you thinking?” _Please say clothes_, he thinks. Knowing Chris, it could just as easily be records or equipment or even imported snacks, but Neil’s suddenly in love with this little fantasy he’s spun. That could actually be a really fun day.

“Well, I noticed you don’t have a lot of casual clothes”—_yes!_—“and there are a couple of charity shops near me that I really like”—_no._ He’s never liked charity shops much, they tend to have a smell about them and he’s always been iffy on the idea of wearing other people’s clothes. “Or we could hit up Tesco’s. I dunno. We don’t even need to buy anything, really, I just like trying on new stuff.”

“It’s not really new if it comes from a charity shop, is it.”

“It can be! I’ve found some fab, fab things there, honest. Tags still on, never been worn. Even better if you go where all the rich bastards live, like Ealing.”

Neil’s face promptly flares up. Of course he chose that as his example.

“You blushing?”

“No.”

Chris simply pauses and waits.

“…yes.”

“Eaaaaa-ling,” says Chris, dragging the word out like molasses, rich, dark and slow. Neil savours it with the guiltiest pleasure. Part of him is tempted to hang up because Chris is being a twat again; the other part wants to stay on the line and feed him a few more faves.

“That’s not the only word I love hearing you say,” Neil murmurs, hardly aware he’s said anything. Apparently his brain’s already chosen the latter option for him. Typical masochist, he is.

“Is that so.” Chris sounds amused. “Never had anyone tell me that before.”

“What, that your voice is intensely erotic?” Oops. Hopefully he can play it off as comical exaggeration, not the truth.

Chris snorts. “No. I’ve only ever gone to bed with Northerners. We all sound like this. You could walk down the street where I grew up and find a dozen or more blokes with voices that’re just as”—and here he imitates Neil—“intensely erotic.”

For some reason, hearing Chris mimic him is sexy too—he enunciates each syllable precisely, and catches the ‘o’ deep in his throat. Or maybe it’s just the thrill of hearing him say _erotic_. Or that they’ve swung back to the topic of sex, and Chris is talking about the sort of blokes who’ve wound up in his bed. Whatever it is, Night Neil is loving this conversation, and he’s piping up with a load of rude questions right now. _Simmer down, you._ “Huh. Interesting. You know, I’m from the North too, technically.”

“Yeah. You told me. Newcastle. You don’t sound it though.”

“Oh. Pity. So does that mean you won’t go to bed with me?” _Simmer DOWN._ What a ridiculous question to ask. Put him on the spot like that.

“Well, after yesterday…”

Neil blanches. Yesterday is something he’d like to forget ever happened, but he knew it would come up at some point. “About that. I’m sorry. I would’ve—” _I would’ve totally got you off, had I known._ Night Neil leaps on that fantasy and gnaws on it, contented, leaving him time to put together a proper apology. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t see it coming either.”

“Pun not intended, I suppose,” Chris says, wry as ever. He doesn’t sound the slightest bit upset. “Look, Neil, it’s fine. I like you, okay? I really like you. I know I went a bit weird, but it’s coz I knew I’d just wanked in your toilet and, well, that’s kind of awkward to say to someone, right? Sure, I woulda preferred if we’d done it together, but there’s always next time.”

Move over, _a date_. The two loveliest words in the English language are now _next time_. They charm his mouth into a wicked smile, one that pours over into his delivery. “You really are something else, Chris.”

“Thanks.” There’s another beautiful word of his: thanks. Every time Neil hears it, it’s like being presented with a teddy bear. “So, when d’you want me to drop by? Around two-ish?”

“Deux heures. Actually, feel free to pop by whenever.” Then he remembers Chris’s weakness. “I’ll probably be baking something.”

“Oh, fantastic. Gimme a ring when it’s in the oven and I’ll be right down. Talk to you later?”

“Yeah! Take care.”

“Seeya, Nebs.”

And just like that, he’s got a date. A real and proper date. With Chris.

After scoffing down the last few bites of dinner, he bolts to his bedroom and cracks open his journal.

> Told you so, told you so, TOLD YOU SO.
> 
> I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it.
> 
> Did you hear that? Nebs. Swoon.
> 
> I know. Incredible. I can’t believe you didn’t drive him away.
> 
> Why would I? You heard him. He likes you. And what’d I do wrong?
> 
> Well you did make me come in my trousers, etc.
> 
> Maybe he liked it.
> 
> Oh, shut up.
> 
> Okay, but think of this: what would’ve happened if you’d come back to the bed, and instead he was stark naked with a nice big hard-on.
> 
> I thought I told you to shut up. And it’s ‘were’ stark naked, not ‘was’.
> 
> And he’d say something like “Oi. Neil. I been waiting for ye.”
> 
> Chris doesn’t say ‘oi’.
> 
> And he’d lay back on the bed and say “You can do whatever you want to me.”
> 
> It’s ‘lie’ back, actually.
> 
> And you’d climb on top of him and…
> 
> Oh, all right. You win.

Letting the fantasy take hold, Neil lies back, grinning. Not lays. Lays is what he does to Chris.


	10. Improvisation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their second date!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all those who helped me with this chapter, and a special thanks to [The Internet Archive](archive.org) for so many little fiddly bits I needed help researching. No spoilers, though 😉 This is a long one, hope you enjoy!

_What am I going to do with eighteen singin’ hinnies?_ Neil thinks, long after the little cakes are in the oven, keeping warm. Traditionally the recipe was built for a family of eight, in a time when appetites were vast and one would need to double the recipe almost by default. It says so right here in the book. But the only other person who’ll be eating them is Chris, and he can’t possibly finish off the remaining fifteen or so, after Neil’s had his very polite two or three.

The last few are in the pan, whistling away, as he pores over the cookbook. Really, he shouldn’t need a recipe, they’re dead simple to make and he had them growing up. But he needed a refresher, and besides, this one was very funny in its Americanisms. Anyone who titles a book _Great British Cooking_ has to be an American.

There’s the knock at the door he’s been waiting for. He turns off the stovetop and greets Chris.

Or rather, Chris greets him, carrying a small bundle of flowers.

Nobody’s ever brought him flowers before, and it takes him aback. This one simple gesture’s got him tongue-tied, and the “Hey Chris!” that would normally come out is caught in his throat. All he can do is stare at the bouquet, then at Chris, dressed in a crimson bomber jacket and those great Sta-Prest trousers of his. He can’t tell which is more beautiful.

Chris’s eyes follow him, nervous and wary. “Too much? Yeah, too much. Where can I bin these?”

“Don’t be daft,” Neil says, attempting to rearrange himself so that he’s more receptive to an unexpected gift of flowers, if such a body position exists. He ends up holding his hands in front of himself like he’s about to catch a basketball, but thankfully Chris gets the idea and hands him the bouquet. With a sense of wonder, he strokes the petals, reveling in their soft, pliant texture: they give easily under the caress of a thumb. They’re all white, with a sort of rose shape, and the inside is a pale, glowing yellow, as though lit from within. Neil feels a similar flame flickering inside himself, young and tender, a new beginning. He knows he should say something else, the last thing he said is _don’t be daft_, hardly an encouraging comment—but truly, he’s at a loss for words.

“D’you like them?” Chris asks, scratching the back of his head. “I tried to pick something a bit…y’know, masculine. Never gave anybody flowers before.”

_And I've never been given them._ “What are they called? Do you know?”

Chris shakes his head. “Starts with an L, I think. That’s all I remember. They last a while, though. Two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” Neil repeats to himself, still gazing upon the creamy blooms. Then he realises he’s not properly thanked Chris for them yet, nor told him how lovely they are, what a good choice he made. “They’re…beautiful. Thank you.” He hesitates, then lays a kiss on Chris’s cheek.

Somehow, that tiny peck is more intimate than any of the kisses they’ve shared so far, and it sets off another round of verbal ping-pong. This time they’re both aiming at each other, talking too fast, desperate for something else to focus on.

“Right. Have you got a vase?”

“Sadly, no. Wait—no. Gave it away.”

“Shame. Anything tall and skinny that can be filled?”

“Apart from me?”

“Ha ha. Anything—like a pitcher, or a massive beer stein or something.”

“Chris. Look at me. Do I look like a man who drinks beer?”

“Well, a pitcher then! You must have one of those.”

“In my kitchen.”

“Go get it then. The longer you keep ‘em out of water, the more likely it is they’ll die.”

“Ah, romance! May as well come with me, we’ll have a bite to eat before we go.”

Once the flowers are stripped, trimmed, and thrown in the pitcher, Chris gets a whiff of the food and cracks a grin. “What’d you make? It smells amazing!”

“Old Northumberland recipe. Singin’ hinnies.”

“Hinnies?”

“Means honey.” Now that he’s in more familiar territory—the world of food—he feels calmer, and a little bold. But even he’s shocked by what he does next. He picks up Chris’s chin with one finger and winks. “Which is what you are.”

As Chris puts his head in his hands and moans, Neil goes off whistling, delighting in the way he can charm such a strong reaction with such a small gesture. Part of the fun of dating is flustering the other person, and Chris is wonderfully easy to fluster. “But like, what are they,” he says, after he’s done being theatrically embarrassed.

“Essentially, it’s a scone, only done in a pan instead of the oven. And with an obscene amount of butter. Here.” He passes Chris the cookbook, then ducks into the oven and pulls out the tray. “And I made eighteen of ‘em.”

Chris starts giggling.

“What?”

“Says here they’re to be eaten with a ‘generous knob’. Whoever wrote this is a total size queen.”

“I know, ‘a generous knob of butter’,” says Neil, giggling right along with him. Despite his carefully crafted intellectual appearance, sometimes he’s got all the sophisticated humour of a twelve-year-old boy. “But I think a regular-size knob will do nicely. How many do you want?”

“Maybe six? I missed lunch. Wha’d’you eat them with?”

“Whatever you put on scones.” For Neil, this is a prime opportunity to get rid of the many and sundry jams that have been cluttering his fridge, and he’s spread them out on the table in a cute little line. He indicates them with a sweep of the hand. “Take your pick. Oh, and don’t forget the butter.” He puts seven cakes on Chris’s plate and two on his, then sits down to enjoy.

Last time he cooked for Chris, he didn’t get a chance to savour what he’d prepared. He knew it was good, but the food came second to the conversation they were having. This time, it’s the opposite. They eat in blissful peace, not saying much, only exchanging a few words here and there. It may be sacrilege to say so, but these are the best singin’ hinnies he’s ever had. Better than his mum, better than even his grandmum. They are divine.

And it seems that Chris is in agreement, judging by the way he polishes off his seven, gets up, and comes back with three more. His plate is a rainbow of jams, and sometimes he’s loading on two or three per bite.

“You glutton,” Neil teases him.

“Me? No. I’m a gourmand. I only stuff my face with food I love. There’s a difference. By the way, you gave me seven, didn’t you.”

Neil winks again, impressed that Chris knows the difference. “Baker’s half-dozen.”

“That doesn’t exist!” But he tucks into his second round with gusto, and soon Neil goes and gets a couple more too.

By the time they’re finished, bellies full of sweet, crumbly, buttery goodness, there are only three left. Neil doesn’t feel too bad about getting rid of that many. The empty jam-pots, he can drop off when he’s visiting his mum. A promising start to their date, certainly.

“Christ, I thought I was gonna have to bin half of these,” he says, after he’s done. “Thank you for being hungry.”

“Thank _you_ for feeding me! Free food!” Chris smiles, satisfied and sly. “One step closer to being a kept boy.”

And though it’s a joke, and Neil should be rolling his eyes, some part of him latches hard onto that comment. He wants to keep Chris well fed, and well clothed, and taken care of. He wants to be…you know…a proper boyfriend. Which is a terribly scary thought for someone who’s never done this kind of thing before. The rules of men dating men are a complete mystery to him, and he’s bound to break one of them at some point. What do you wear? Who takes the “lead”? Who pays the bill? How long do you wait before setting up the next date? Who buys the ring?

Why is he thinking about rings when they’re only on their second date? Rubbish. Complete rubbish.

“So,” Chris says, leaning back in his chair. “We ready to go?”

“Yeah. Where are you taking me?” The phrasing is deliberate, mostly for his own enjoyment. He loves the thought of being led somewhere by Chris.

“Your favourite neighbourhood.”

“Ealing?” Neil asks, disappointed by how bland the word sounds coming from him.

“Ea-ling. You put the ‘l’ at the tip of your tongue, when it should be back here.” Chris points to his throat, the smooth curve of his Adam’s apple catching Neil’s attention. “And you say it too quickly. Slow down. Stop and smell the roses. Ea-ling.”

He listens and repeats. Still not quite right. “I also can’t get my voice as low as you.”

“Oh, that’s simple. Relax your throat.” Chris is smirking. “Let the word trickle down…how’s it taste?”

Rather than give Chris the smack he deserves—a quick _boff_, it would be so easy—he decides to fight fire with fire. He lifts his chin and feels his throat expanding. Then, when he says the word again, it’s with a dark hoarseness neither of them expect, coming from somewhere even deeper.

Chris stares at him, wide-eyed, and Neil can see the circuits buzzing in his brain. “Not bad. You’ve got potential.”

Pleasure sparks in his cheeks, wraps round his face and funnels to the back of his neck, where the hairs stand up. He’s always had this kind of reaction to Chris’s praise—strong, almost embarrassed—and it’s only grown more intense with time. Even a compliment as minor as _you’ve got potential_ can provoke a physical response. “Thank you,” he says, getting up too quickly. “Um. Shall we get going?”

Chris drapes himself over the chair like a plastic skeleton. “I dunno about you, mate, but I just ate ten of those things. I’m feeling tiiiiiired.”

“Get up,” Neil snaps, gripping his hand and tugging him out of his laziness.

Truthfully, this is more of an excuse to hold Chris’s hand again. Again? Yes—just a week ago, they were holding hands at the entrance of Heaven, pretending to be boyfriends. Now, they’re the real thing, or damn close. Neil still isn’t sure whether he can refer to Chris as his boyfriend yet. After one semi-successful date and another one that’s only about a quarter of the way through—plus the club visit—plus their dinner “dates” (air quotes needed on that one)—plus the way they met—does that equal boyfriends yet? Hmm. Must ask Chris when he’s got a minute.

He gets dressed in his black peacoat and tugs on a wool beret. And comfortable trainers, as they’re bound to be walking a lot. When they exit the building, Neil once again catches a glimpse of them in the shop window. Echoes of their first meeting flood his brain, only now, the two of them don’t look so ridiculously mismatched. They look…intentional. Like, yeah, there’s something to this combo of a scrubby, streetwise kid and his tall, classy, clever-looking partner. They’re a proper duo. A rush of excitement starts in his toes and travels through his whole body, landing on his face, which breaks out in a broad grin.

“What are you smiling about?” Chris asks him, not missing a trick.

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Hey, shall we go and have a look at the stalls at King’s Road first?”

“Sure. Just a quick peek, though.”

The market is, inevitably, overcrowded; it is a Saturday after all. Dozens of people flit between the stalls, not buying anything, simply enjoying themselves. The familiar scent of fish ‘n’ chips, smoke, and seawater lingers in the air. The two of them wiggle their way through the masses until Neil feels a tug at his sleeve. He turns around. Before them is the famous BOY London stall—never a draw for him personally, but apparently one for Chris, who appears to be salivating over the cheap, mass-printed goods.

“I want one of those so bad,” he moans, pointing at a stack of those BOY-printed caps, and at first Neil thinks he’s joking.

“Really? They’re so…obvious.”

“Obvious?!”

“Yeah. Everyone can tell you’re a boy.”

“That’s not the point,” Chris says, rolling his eyes in that very dramatic way of his. “They’re cool. I like the way they look, is all.”

“A man as intelligent as you, getting taken in by a label,” Neil tuts, feeling superior. He’s never been one for designers himself. What’s the appeal? Just ‘coz something’s got a swish logo emblazoned on it, doesn’t mean it’s worth twice as much. Most of the time, the same thing can be found for far cheaper somewhere else, if the gullible sheep who fork over their precious dosh would care to look.

“Oh, I know your type. You think we should all be _above_ designer labels, eh.” Chris is trying to smile, but his best attempt is tense and not entirely happy.

At that, Neil does begin to worry a little, but not enough to stop him from doubling down. “They’re ten pounds! When has a cap ever been worth ten pounds? Seriously, Chris. You can find far better ways to spend your money.”

A deafening silence.

“C’mon,” Neil says, nudging him with his elbow. “Don’t just roll over, hit back at me! Tell me why we should all be plastered in labels, head to toe!”

Chris opens his mouth, then closes it. Some of the light drains from his eyes, and he turns away. “Never mind. You’re right. It’s stupid. Let’s just go.”

As Chris tries to shove past a new cluster of shoppers, Neil’s eyes widen in horror. He wasn’t being playful and teasing, he was just being a knob. How could he forget? Rule #1: don’t be needlessly cruel about the things your sweetheart likes. Honestly, this is a good rule for all relationships, but it’s particularly important for romances. Contempt is corrosive; he’s seen it dissolve several good relationships, on both sides. But with Chris, he’s got an opportunity to make a new start in many ways. Hopefully, he can upend some of the dynamics that crippled his past romances, and turn himself into a better, kinder person. A Proper Boyfriend. That’s what he’s got to keep in mind.

Luckily, they’ve not been able to move. So he touches Chris’s wrist and gives him a gentle look. “Hold on. I’m sorry, I know I was horrid. Here.” He turns back to the stall. “Can he try on one of those caps?”

The shop assistant, a surly, bespectacled, androgynous punk, raises an eyebrow. “You the one I heard gettin’ on his high horse about labels?”

Fuck. He was right next to the stall, of course they heard. “Erm, yes, guilty as charged. It’s not for me, though.”

“Huh. For your mate?”

To the outside world, he and Chris are still just mates. Odd. But kind of thrilling, in a way. Feels like they’re getting away with something. “Yeah.”

“Keep an eye on him, will you. Don’t want him nicking any of me wares.” A new cap is conjured up, seemingly from thin air, and handed to Neil.

He places the cap—black with gold letters—on Chris’s head. Oh. Somehow, even though 99% of the people he’s seen wearing these things look a total prat, Chris is part of the other 1%. Ironically, he’s one of the only people who can pull it off. And not only that—look incredible doing so. On him, the hat doesn’t give off the see-how-much-money-I’ve got, aren’t-I-so-cool vibe that it does for most. It’s natural. Blends in with his overall vibe. And awakens one of Neil’s long-dormant fantasies. _Later_, he tells himself, though the fantasy is yawning and stretching and settling into a nice corner of his brain.

Wait. Chris can’t see himself, can he. Neil looks for a mirror, and finds one tucked away in a different stall. When he holds it up to Chris’s face, an even more alluring expression appears: a sweet, sheepish smile, one that softens Neil’s spirit and reminds him of what he needs to do. Be kind. Be understanding. Treat him like gold. Give him more reasons to smile like this.

And he knows just how to make that smile broader.

“How much is that one?” he asks the shop assistant.

“Oh, Neil, you don’t need to, really,” Chris says, taking the cap off and trying to put it back where it came from.

“Do you like it?”

“Well, yeah, I love it, but—”

He shushes Chris just in time for the answer to come in: seven pounds. That’s all right, but not cheap enough. What Chris doesn’t know is that Neil is a master haggler, and he’ll stop at nothing to get a good bargain.

“Would you do four?” Neil asks.

“Er…that’s a bit low.”

“Five, then.” He’s prepared to pay five, maybe six. “I notice there are no other caps like it, which leads me to believe it’s discontinued. _C’est vrai?_”

“Well…”

“So really, five pounds for something you were never gonna sell anyway, isn’t that a good deal?”

“…I guess so.”

“Perfect. I’m glad we agree.”

Fifteen seconds later and the cap is back on Chris’s head. Not one of the toughest haggles of his life, mind you, but still a triumph, and Chris is impressed. His eyes are huge and awestruck, and he’s touching the cap on his head as though it’s not real and it’ll vanish any minute. Neil takes a moment to commit this face to memory. _Think of this next time you get the urge to be rude. Make him happy._

They clear a path through the market, holding hands whenever there’s a risk of losing each other in the crowd. Incredibly, they soon wind up in fresh, open air, and Chris takes a deep breath, smiling. “Ah. Thank God we’re out of there. Fucking smokers, I swear to God.”

“Not a smoker, I take it?”

“God no. Never been. The smell gets into everything, it’s disgusting. Turns me right off.”

“Oh.” _Must remember to bin my last packet of fags when I get home._ “I don’t like it very much either.”

“Good. Oh, and by the way, thanks.” Chris tips his hat at Neil. “You really didn’t need to.”

“Consider it my way of apologising for being such a sanctimonious prick.”

“S’alright. At least you recognised you were doing it. And hey, I got a sexy new cap out of the deal.”

“That you did.” _Sexy is right_, Neil thinks. If anything, he’s got on an even bigger grin than Chris. Wasn’t it Mark Twain who said ‘the best way to cheer yourself up is to cheer someone else up’? Definitely holds true in this case. “So where to next?”

“Where else? Say it with me…”

“Oh. Right.”

And off they embark in the direction of the tube.

* * *

As they ascend the stairs and come up into Ea-ling, the brightness of the day shocks them both. While the sky is overcast, there are cracks in the clouds that light up their edges, sending luminous sunbeams to the world below. The temperature is mild for this time of year, but not so warm that they need to take off their coats. It’s perfect weather, really. Neil couldn’t have asked for a lovelier day.

“I’ve never done this before,” Chris says, pointing them in the right direction.

“What, take the tube?”

“No, you idiot. Go shopping with someone else. As a date.”

“Oh. What do you usually do?” Neil asks. He feels comfortable prying a little, as it’s Chris who brought it up.

“Well, to be completely frank…we fuck.”

Neil bursts out laughing. He was hardly expecting that. “Ah, romance!”

Another round-the-world eyeroll from Chris. “It’s not like that. The rules are just different. You meet at a club, go home, have a nice shag, and then the next morning decide if you wanna keep seein’ each other. At least for most guys, that is. It’s no less _romantic_ just because you have sex first, that’s a very heterosexual way of looking at things.”

“Is that an insult?” Neil says, amused and a bit envious, thinking about all the _you’s_ that Chris could be referring to.

“Oh no. Some of my best friends are heterosexual.” He gives Neil a meaningful nudge. “Or were.”

_Or were._ The words find a little home in his mind, right next to his favourite fantasy, as they make their way to their first shop. It’s a bog-standard Oxfam: small, dingy, crowded, and smelly. The racks are packed with clothes, and Chris immediately starts running his hands through them, pulling out garment after garment. Soon he needs to grab a trolley from the front of the shop, and he wheels it back to Neil, humming a tune.

“I think you’re trying to make charity-shopping into a sport,” Neil remarks, as the pile of clothes grows from a hill to a mountain.

“Trying?! I already have.” He rounds the corner and plunks a couple more tees into his trolley. “D’you realise how much of me wardrobe is other people’s stuff?”

“How much?”

“About eighty percent, give or take. What about you?”

“Me? I’m not…opposed to it, necessarily, but I tend to prefer Marks & Spencer, myself…”

“You’re not a fan, eh,” Chris simply says, twigging to Neil’s discomfort. He’s pretty good at picking up on such things.

Best to be honest, Neil figures. “Not really.”

Chris gives him an encouraging smile. “We don’t need to stay long, then. I’m very quick at trying stuff on. Gives us more time for the surprise.”

“No—I want to give it a try.” Then Neil processes his last sentence. “Did I just hear you say ‘surprise’?”

“Yeah.” Behind Chris’s sweet, playful eyes, there’s a whole lot of mental activity, a mind whirring with thoughts that aren’t revealed—the delight of holding a secret. And with that, Neil’s smacked with the truth. For all of his cracks about Chris’s (lack of) romance, tucking a surprise into a date is pretty bloody romantic, no matter what it is. He does have a sentimental side to him: first the flowers, now this.

“Gimme a hint?” Neil asks, charmed and very curious.

“No hints. Now’s time for your first lesson. D’you know your measurements?”

“Not off hand.”

Chris reaches into one of the million pockets in his bomber jacket and pulls out a woven measuring tape, wiggling it in front of Neil’s face. “Never leave home without it. Sizes are different, but if you know your chest and waist, you can see if something will fit. Although I tend to just load my trolley with a bunch of things anyway, then if I like it, I get me mum to take it in.”

“Aww, nice,” Neil says, softening at the image of Chris posting a load of clothes back home with a note to tailor these, please. Cute.

“Next thing. Follow me.” They do a few laps and wind up near the rack of jumpers. After a cheeky sweep of the room to make sure no one’s watching, Chris grabs Neil’s hand and runs it along the clothes. The touch of their hands always gives him a thrill, and he loves it whenever Chris manhandles him like this. “Feel that? How some are nice, some are scratchy, some are warm?”

“Yeah.” But really, what Neil feels is the gentle press of fingertips into his skin. If Chris keeps this up, he’s certain that any lesson he attempts to parlay will pass him by.

“Go by fabric. You’ll never wear something if it’s uncomfortable or itchy. I’ve found so many nice jumpers this way. Real cashmere and wool. Silk, even.”

Once Chris lets go, the clear untruth of what he’s just said dawns on Neil. “I’ve never seen you in a jumper in my life.”

“I’m wearing one right now! And ‘in my life’, how long’ve we known each other?”

“Five…six months.”

“You can’t possibly know everything there is to know about me in half a year,” Chris declares. “I’m large. I contain multitudes.”

“Ah, very good. That’s Walt Whitman.”

“Who’s that?”

“American poet,” Neil says, glad that Chris doesn’t try to cover up his ignorance or make excuses for it. He simply asks what he wants to know, which is refreshing.

“Oh. OK.” Chris gives him an understanding nod, then moves to the other side of the rack so that they don’t bump into each other, and they resume their search.

While he flicks through the row of jumpers, he thinks about the poem that quote derives from, _Song of Myself_. He first discovered it in an anthology of poetry, and with a flick of the page he was plunged into another world—the world contained within one human being. And from then on, he began to develop a genuine interest in other people. They were so much deeper than he ever gave them credit for, and while Whitman articulated the complexity of his character especially well, he was not unique in having this complexity. Everyone had the power to surprise, if you let them. For example, someone could appear to be a typical do-nothing know-nothing scoundrel, then turn out to have a keen mind and a great passion for architecture. Someone could seem callous, even blasé about others’ distress, then take care of you and get you back on your feet after a rough night out. Someone could come off as your average heterosexual lad, then kiss you before he closes your front door.

And there’s still so much Neil doesn’t know about Chris. He’s right, they’ve not known each other for that long—only six months. In that time, he’s absorbed various bits of knowledge, but these are mere paragraphs in a thick, well-worn tome, with whole sections that haven’t been read yet. _Chris Lowe, Unabridged._

“Neil?”

“Yeah?”

Chris is holding up a moto jacket: black, shiny leather, with quilted shoulders and almost as many pockets and zips as his. “Try this on. I wanna see what you look like in a leather jacket.”

Disappointment creeps into him. He was having so much fun building an elaborate metaphor for his view on life. That’s his comfort zone, not trying on new things and having to confront his insecurity about his personal appearance.

“What’s the matter?” Chris asks.

“I dunno, Chris. I’m not cool enough to wear something like that.”

“Cool enough?!” he exclaims, laughing. “Come over here.”

He shuffles over, trepidation twisting with his disappointment and turning into an icky feeling at the bottom of his stomach. He knows he won’t have the effortless cool of Chris, he’ll probably just look bad.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Chris says. And while Neil still doesn’t want to try on the jacket very much, he does love a good secret—the hand cupping the ear, the mouth grazing the temple, the words soft and low. So he concedes.

“Anybody can wear anything…” _Well, I know that._ “…and I think you’d look hot in a leather jacket.”

_Oh, hell. So he wasn’t making fun of me. Alright then._ Chris, bless him, acts as his coat-rack as he shuffles out of his first layer and into this one, then follows him to the end of the row, where a mirror stands.

“Told you,” says Chris.

He looks. And looks and looks. Though the jacket Chris chose is really rather ridiculous, it…isn’t bad. He quite likes the sumptuous feel of leather on his skin, along with the way it gleams. He likes the collar, jagged and classically ‘moto’ with silver snaps. But he doesn’t like the quilted shoulders, and he could do without all these zips hanging off him.

Funny. Before this, he never would’ve touched a leather jacket. But now he’s evaluating one neutrally, ignoring the question of whether or not he’s cool enough to wear it. That simply doesn’t figure in. As pat as _anybody can wear anything_ seemed, it was also something he needed to hear. This is much more than a mere garment; Chris is giving him the confidence to do new things, expanding the world inside him and enriching his art, his sense of self, and his life. There are so many more pages in his own great encyclopedia that have been added because of Chris. He thinks to the future ahead, brimming with excitement, and feeling—for the first time in ages—very young.

But back to business. “You’re right,” Neil says slowly. “It’s not bad. But it’s a bit…much. Shall we go and have a look at the others?”

Chris’s eyes light up.

* * *

The rest of the time flies by, and after a truly insane number of put-this-on/take-this-offs, they stagger out of the store with a few giant plastic bags, carrying things for Chris, things for Neil, and things they can share. (Sharing—what a thought! He’s never done that with someone he’s dating before, and the novelty of it tickles him pink.) Above them, the cracks in the clouds have opened up even more, sending some sun—real, late-afternoon sun—down on them.

Neil looks at his watch. “It’s five-o-clock,” he says, ever looking forward to his next meal, and wondering whether a term of endearment will go amiss. “Are you in the mood for supper, darling?”

“_Darling?_” Apparently, it will, judging by Chris’s uproarious laughter.

“I don’t know,” Neil says, frowning. “Forget I said that. What are the sorts of pet names men like?”

“Wait, did you just say it’s five?”

“Well yes, we did stay there a while.”

“Oh fuck. Oh, fuck fuck fuck—how fast can you run?”

Before Neil can answer, his wrist’s been nearly pulled out of its socket, and the two of them are bounding down the streets of Ealing. Turn here. Turn there. Keep going for five more blocks. A quick turn there. Ten more long, unfamiliar blocks. At first, all six of the classic journalistic questions enter his mind: _who, what, where, when, why, and how?_ But as the seconds drag on into minutes and they’re still no closer to their destination, his mind narrows to _where_. As in, where is this place he so desperately needs to get to? He better have a damn good reason for making Neil do so much running.

Then he suddenly stops. _Is it here?_ Neil thinks, hope filling him like lost energy.

“Fuck, we missed it,” says Chris, and the hope disappears in a snap, replaced by a nagging resentment. Chris steps back and eyes up the building before them. “No. Wait. 150? It’s just a couple of blocks away. We still have time.” And back they dart in the same direction they came.

When they finally reach the spot, Neil takes a good, long look.

“Chris,” he breathes, incredulous. “Is this a pet shop?”

“Yeah.” He opens the door, which makes a chiming sound, and steps inside. After a few moments to collect his breath, Neil follows him in, mystified. This must be the big surprise.

The shop is small, clean, and well-stocked, though completely unremarkable. And Neil pointedly doesn’t own a pet. Neither of them do. If he were in a comic book, a question mark would be forming over his head right about now. He watches as Chris says something inaudible to the person at the counter, who points to a staircase that Neil didn’t see. _C’mon_, Chris mouths, and barrels down the stairs. Neil is always afraid of twisting his ankle going downstairs that fast, so he takes the steps one at a time.

The basement seems to be home to a dog grooming salon. One man is pushing about a vacuum cleaner, sucking up all the day’s dander, while another is scrubbing out a raised tub. Neither of them seems to have taken any notice of Neil and Chris—that is, until Chris clears his throat and says “Knock knock.”

Mr. Tub Scrubber perks up. “Hey! Chris! You made it! Dev, turn off the vacuum.”

As the whirring dies down, Dev goes and joins his partner, a tall, broad-shouldered, sturdy-looking man with freckles all over his pale arms. His coal-black hair has just been let loose. Dev, meanwhile, looks an awful lot like that bloke from The Monochrome Set, with the same long limbs, close-cropped hair, and dark, striking eyes.

“I was beginning to think you’d never show up,” says Sir Scrubber of Tub, hanging up his apron. Soon, Dev (Sir Cleaner of Vacuum) follows suit. Chris puts down the bags and holds out his arms for a hug, getting one from each.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he replies, muffled by the scrubber's arm. “Couldn’t find the bloody place.”

“Chris. How long have you known us?”

“Well you’ve only been working here for a couple of months! What can I say? Oh—” He pauses, remembering his manners. “Right. This is Danny, he’ll bore you half to death with the way he drones on and on, and this is Dev, who barely talks at all. And lads…this is Neil.”

Both of them glare at Chris, never one to take an introduction seriously. Especially Dev, who may, in fact, have been dealt the worse blow. “Love you too, darling.”

“Oh. ‘Darling’. This one tried to call me that earlier,” Chris says, jerking a thumb towards Neil, who feels himself tensing up.

“Huh. Is he your…”

Chris looks up at him fondly. “What do you think, Neil? What are we?”

So now Neil’s the one forced to solve that mental equation. And in front of a couple of guys who he’s known for less than a minute, at that. “I…” he stammers, drawn towards the safest choice. “I’m his friend?”

“Neil, it’s okay. You can say we’re dating, they’re gay too, they won’t judge.”

“Are they?” asks Neil, the tension in his body relaxing. Relief washes over him, and he senses that he’s at home. Just that one little bit of connection can make all the difference.

“I hope so, or I’m in trouble,” says Danny, with a dazzling grin. To prove his point, Dev plants a quick kiss on his cheek, and Neil’s eyes widen. So they’re not only gay, they’re a couple. “Phew. That was a close one.”

“A close brush with heterosexuality,” Neil chimes in, and they all laugh. “Actually, I’ve never dated a man before, myself.” He isn’t sure why he added that last part. To be interesting?

“And you start with Chris?” Danny exclaims, and Dev promptly hits him with the very towel he was using to scrub the tub. _Oh, I’m gonna like him._

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Oh, nothing, he’s just a bit of a twerp is all. Hey, me and Dev are gonna keep cleaning up, have a look around if you like.”

At first, Neil glances around, confused. There isn’t much else to see, is there? But then Chris leans in and whispers something in Danny’s ear. He smiles, nods, and pulls out a drawer, handing Chris a full bag of dog treats. The question mark above Neil’s head reappears.

He follows Chris to the corner of the room, where a large wicker-basket bed sits. When he gets close enough, a fluffy white snoot pops up, and that’s when the penny drops. Sitting in the middle of the bed, surrounded by pink fluff, is the biggest, most adorable poodle he’s ever seen.

“Her name’s Bianca,” Chris says softly, handing him a treat. “Figured, you love dogs, I’d bring you here. I know she’s only one dog, but—”

“Chris, hush. Hello, girl.” Bianca has sat up, curious. “Can you give a paw?”

“Say paw.”

“Paw,” Neil repeats, and when she gives her paw it’s like a lady accepting her first dance. No moment has ever been as perfect as this.

In pure elation, he spends the next ten seconds holding her paw, before remembering to hand her the treat. She grabs it gently, not mauling your hand like some dogs do, and swallows it in one gulp, then looks at him with pleading eyes. _Where’s my next treat?_

Chris gives him another one. “Tell her to sit pretty.”

Neil’s not familiar with that command. “Sit pretty?” But then Bianca rears up on her hind legs, her perfectly manicured front paws dangling in the air. This is a dog who’s very intelligent and _very_ well taken care of by her owners. So she obviously deserves a second treat. And then a third one, ‘coz Neil’s feeling generous. “Good girl! You wanna scratch? Yes, that’s right, she wants a scratch!”

He kneels down and dives his fingers into her soft white fur. Bianca had better be prepared for the scratch of a lifetime. Over the back, down the chest, behind the ears. Soon, Chris joins him, and they spend ages petting her, each tackling a different part. All the while saying those very silly things you say to dogs: _who’s a good girl, you’re a good girl, who’s a very good Bibi, such a pretty lady, yes, I’m talking to you._ Singing songs to her, little ditties that he’s made up on the spot, and oh, he wishes he had a dog, it would make songwriting so much easier!

“Having fun?” a voice asks.

Neil looks up. Danny and Dev are there too, waiting for them, and the shop is sparkling clean. Dev is holding a leash, and when Neil sees that, he lets out a great gushing sigh, causing both the boys to laugh.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be back in a couple weeks,” says Danny reassuringly, collecting the bag of treats from the ground. “Or rather, Bianca will be.”

“Oh, you’re not here every day?”

Danny shakes his head. “This is just a part-time thing. Dev’s doing a PhD in…what is it?”

“Aerospace engineering.”

“Yeah. That. He wants to go build rockets someday. Me, I work in advertising. And speaking of which…” He reaches into the drawer beside him and grabs a stack of green pamphlets, handing them to Neil. “Where do you work?”

“_Smash Hits_.”

He’s prepared for the requisite guffaws at his expense, go on, get it over with—but instead, Danny’s eyes glint with the fire of an opportunist. “Oh yeah! That’s right! Well, if you could pass these around the office, that’d be great, and if you could carve out some ad-space for us in your next ish…”

_That’s right?_ Chris must have told them something. “Erm, it’s not me who handles that, it’s Becky. But what’s in it for me? And keep in mind, I don’t own a dog.”

“Even better. I’ll come by your place and let you pet Bianca. Hey, maybe we can even do a double date every once in a while. You and Chris, me and Dev. Picnic in the park. Free bubbly.”

Dev elbows him in the side. “You’ve never brought me free bubbly!”

“What about Christmas?”

“That was prosecco, you cheapskate!” Laughing, they get into one of those classic shovefights, reminding Neil of the time Chris and Marc did the same thing at Heaven. Yet there’s a difference here, a level of intimacy—their hands never leave each other and they never shove hard. What he’s seeing right here is something utterly new: two men in love.

Most of Neil’s gay friends are just work mates, who have no reason to bring their lovers to the office. And the media has shown him nothing but these very camp caricatures, who exist merely to get a few cheap laughs. No romances for them. So this—a gay couple, successful, happy, running a part-time business—is revelatory. A tall, towering feeling looms over him, like…like…like a giant beanstalk ascending into the heavens, and he’s Jack, peering up to where it could lead. But now, he knows that love is one of the potential outcomes. It’s odd, but that was never part of his schema. Whether due to his own naturally pessimistic mind, or the society he lived in—probably a bit of both—he just didn’t think that this was possible. Which is rather silly and naive, in retrospect, but there it is. And this time, he’s glad to be proven wrong.

As they say goodbye and spring back up the steps, Neil thinks about what he could have with Chris, and what Chris has given him. Today was terrific. Not without its hiccups, of course, but what day isn’t? Funny how Chris sounded so nervous on the phone, his idea of a date reduced to one nebulous, poorly defined activity. He gave off the impression that he had no idea what he was doing. But he did manage to plan and execute a spectacular date, perhaps because of his lack of experience. He had no roadmap to follow, so he built his own. It’s clear he packed a lot of thought and effort into this date, and the fact that he went through all this trouble just for Neil is heartening. _Perhaps I’m as special to him as he is to me_, he thinks, then stops dead in his tracks.

“What?”

“Don't worry about it. Hey…” There’s only one thing on his mind, so he blurts it out. “I’ve never told you I liked dogs, have I?”

Chris continues walking. “No. But I see the way your head turns whenever we pass one by.”

“Oh…” Neil can’t stop himself from grinning. He does do that, doesn’t he. But it’s still remarkable for Chris to have observed it, then found a way to put it into their date. “I can’t believe they called you a twerp.”

“That’s just Danny. He likes winding people up even more than I do.”

“Well, I happen to think I picked an excellent guy to start out with.” _Oh, no. That came out wrong._ “I mean—I don’t just want to start out with you, like, break your heart and then move onto the next bloke, I wanna take this and see how it goes—”

“Neil, relax. I get what you meant. And thanks, same goes for you.” He gives Neil a gentle elbow-nudge, so subtle that it would be indetectable to the naked eye, yet very much felt. Neil turns and finds him playfully batting his eyelashes, which means something bad is coming. “_Are you in the mood for supper, darling?_”

“Look,” Neil says, feeling himself flush, “usually when I call a girl ‘darling’ she swoons over me. How was I supposed to know it wouldn’t work for a boy?”

“Boys don’t really go for that sort of thing. Well, the pet shop boys do, but—”

Again Neil stops in place. Huh. That’s got kind of a nice ring to it, _pet shop boys._ “You mean Danny and Dev?”

“Yeah.”

“They seem nice. I quite liked meeting them.” He won’t go into how important it was to have met them, not now while he’s trying to keep the conversation light. “Do they know you call them that?”

Chris nods. “I keep telling them they should form a duo with that name. Sort of a British rap group, like.” He picks at his nails. “So. Dinner?”

“Right.” After the majesty of today, they should probably top it all off with a proper meal at a proper restaurant. But the thought of sitting in some little French bistro, waiting ages for their meal and then having to work out a tip, is daunting. “How about a burger?”

“Oh, thank God. I thought you were gonna say ‘let’s go out’, and I woulda had to be polite and say yes, and then I woulda been fidgeting the whole time…”

“No, no, I wouldn’t put you through that.” Chris does tend to fidget when they go out to anywhere sit-down-ish, so it’s a win-win for both of them. “McDonald’s OK?”

“Perfect.”

_Perfect_, Neil repeats to himself, looking at this shy, charming boy from Blackpool who happened to waltz into his life. _Just perfect._

* * *

Dinner is a pretty casual affair overall, which makes sense seeing as it’s fast food. And even with the noise and the smell of grease and the uncomfortable plastic seats, it feels far more romantic than any of the meals they’ve had before. They empty all their chips into one pile and eat from there, hands grazing. The talk is idle and amiable, and Chris seems to be on Cloud Nine. He giggles, he cracks a lot of jokes, he plants two chips in his mouth and pretends to be a walrus. Neil doesn’t think he’s ever seen him this happy.

His mood rubs off on Neil, who finds himself in an equally silly state of mind. When comes time to get a straw, he tears off the end, then blows into it so that the paper lands in Chris’s face. He gets a perfect bullseye right at his nose, and after Chris bats it away, he tries to do the same with his own straw, with no luck. Then Neil instructs him on the proper technique, upon which Chris, of course, cracks a filthy one-liner about blow-jobs, and they’re off to the races.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” Chris says, in a brief moment of seriousness. “And…for today. Everything.”

Neil is astonished. “I should be thanking you! I wasn’t the one who organised this whole thing, that was you. Like, bringing me to a pet shop so that we could hang out with a poodle for ten minutes, that’s inventive.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Nobody’s ever done anything that thoughtful for me before.”

Chris lets out a short laugh. “And here I was, convinced you’d be all, ‘no thanks, let’s turn back now’.”

“Why?”

“Because…who does that? Usually it’s, like, go to a movie, or go for a walk in the park. Not shopping and dogs.”

Shopping and dogs. Neil’s been on some pretty dire dates in his life, and he rather thinks that if every one of his dates were shopping and dogs, he’d be a hell of a lot more satisfied. “I loved it, Chris. I really loved today.”

Chris looks down, suddenly shy. “…me too.”

Once they’re finished, they get up, Neil feeling this warm, loving glow as he rises. It carries him out of the restaurant, into the streets of Chelsea, past the familiar King’s Road market stalls which have long since closed down for the night, all the way to his flat, where he and Chris are supposed to part ways.

There, they exchange a few awkward, perfunctory thank-you’s. Neither one knows entirely how to end this date, and Neil isn’t sure he wants to. Not with all these emotions running rampant inside him.

His hands linger on the door-frame. His eyes linger on Chris. He bites his lip. What he wants to say will require a great leap of faith.

“D’you…”

_Oh, God. Stop looking at me like that, Chris. Don’t make me lose my nerve._

“D’you want to come in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes:
> 
> _[Great British Cooking](https://archive.org/details/greatbritishcook00garm/page/208/mode/2up/search/hinnies)_ really exists, and yes, in their recipe for singin' hinnies, they really do advise the reader to use "a generous knob of butter".  
The flowers Chris gives Neil are [white lisianthus](https://i.imgur.com/2qo9a4y.jpg), which I've actually seen [Chris carrying](https://i.imgur.com/CpcYoVc.jpg).  
"That bloke from The Monochrome Set" is the enigmatic Bid, who looks [like this](https://kingmobuk.tumblr.com/post/10366069321/ganesh-seshadri-bid-from-the-monochrome-set). Incidentally, The Monochrome Set are all I've been listening to, recently. Highly recommended if you're a fan of crisp, tuneful, literate indie-pop, or The Smiths, Franz Ferdinand or Belle & Sebastian.


	11. Illumination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens in the dark.

“You know,” Chris says, pulling off his gloves slowly, finger by finger, “I woulda been real disappointed if that was the end of our date.”

“Yeah?”

He nods and shuts the door. Off comes the first glove, then the second. Now his hands are bare and free, and Neil looks at them, wanting. Wanting to touch them. Wanting to hold them. Wanting to feel the way they stroke. Will they be maddeningly soft like last time, or will they press firmly, with purpose? And how far will they go?

The hands have been their only point of contact all day, and even then, fleetingly. They were the tactile equivalent of Pot Noodle—hot and satisfying in the moment, but incapable of providing any real nutritive value. Worse, they left him hungrier than when he started. Neil has been trying to subsist on these quick little Pot Noodle touches for six hours now, and meanwhile, his appetite has grown to the point where he can hardly stand it. He’s wanted to do so much more than what he’s been capable of.

So he takes Chris’s hands in his. Doesn’t do much else. He feels how cold they are, despite being kept inside gloves for most of the day. He feels the nails, nicely kept and concisely trimmed. He feels all the bumps and curves of the palms, running thumbs along the lines. And after a few seconds, he feels them warming up. Euphoria breathes its delicate fragrance over him, and he stays there for quite a while, the heat from his hands seeping into the chill of Chris’s. There’s something very powerful about affecting a change in Chris’s body through his own, and as he steps away, he can see precisely where that change has taken hold. Not just in his hands, but in his face, too, which has grown shy and vulnerable. Perhaps he isn’t the type to enjoy this sort of affection.

“Sorry,” Neil says, becoming self-conscious. “Just making up for all the hand-holding I wanted to do earlier. I know you probably want to, y’know, get to the good stuff, but…”

Chris breaks into a broad, amused grin. “What good stuff? Do you mean _sex?_”

“Well…”

“There’s time for that, trust me. My jacket's not even off yet.”

“Ooh, let me!” And before Chris can make fun of him for being so eager, he’s back on him, standing close and slowly unzipping his jacket. Zips may not have the trembling anticipation of buttons, but they’re a lot easier, leaving him more time to brush Chris’s skin as he takes care of the sleeves. He slides the jacket onto a hanger and sticks it in the closet. A few moments later and his own coat is dangling beside it. A bomber and a peacoat. Them, in a microcosm.

The second part of being a good host is always a drink, so he gets Chris’s order—“whatever you’re having”—and heads for the kitchen. There’s a bottle of red wine under the sink that’s got their names on it. He pours two goblets and manages not to drop them on his way over, which is a small miracle considering his mental state. Underneath his elation is a tinge of nervousness. Quite a familiar sensation: it’s always there when he’s this-close to something he wants.

When he sets the glasses down on the coffee table, he gets his first good look at Chris, sans jacket. He wasn’t lying earlier; he is, in fact, wearing a jumper, black and slim-fitting. The sight of Chris in something that properly fits him, hinting at the dimensions of his body, is enough to make Neil’s throat constrict. If he plays his cards right, he may get to see these dimensions for himself.

He plunks himself down next to Chris, delightfully, daringly close, and hands him his glass. A bit of wine sloshes out, trickling down the v-neck of Chris’s jumper. As they share a laugh, Neil’s mind is pulled in the direction of that v, guiding him like an arrow into pleasures unknown. _His skin’s gonna taste even better now._

“Cheers?” Neil asks, holding his own glass in front of Chris.

“Cheers.” _Clink._ Sip. Stare. Blink.

Blink. Blink.

Neil knows what’s supposed to come next. The meeting of lips, then hands, then other body parts and so on and so forth. But they’re locked in this horrible staring contest that neither one can resolve, and the more Chris gazes at him, the more impossible that first step seems.

After far too long of this, Chris starts to giggle. “What, you nervous?”

“No. Course not,” says Neil, transparent as cling film.

“Yes you are. Don’t lie. I can see it.”

He sets down his glass and folds his arms. “Brilliant deduction, Dr. Lowe. But in case you haven’t noticed, sir, you haven’t exactly been Mr. Active either.”

“Ooh, two nicknames in one! Dr. Lowe and Mr. Active! Sounds like a crime-fighting duo.”

“Oh shut up. My point is, if we’re to go by your reasoning, you’re nervous too.”

Chris tilts the wine in his glass, back and forth, back and forth. Then he polishes off the remainder—a hair too quickly, perhaps—and places the glass next to Neil’s. “Course I am. How d’you think I know?”

“What have you got to be nervous about, Mr. Experienced? Mr. Hasn’t-Come-In-His-Pants?”

“Keep ‘em coming.”

Right, that’s four nicknames in the span of thirty seconds. That has to be a record. “Mr. Looks-Devastatingly-Attractive-In-That-Jumper.” Five.

“Another one,” Chris whispers, a tinge of red appearing on his cheeks.

It must be contagious, as Neil’s feeling hot around the collar too. Being vocal about his desire for Chris is still a challenge, and he’s about to be even more forthright. He’s trying to push himself. “Mr. Really-Deserves-A-Proper-Fuck-After-What-I-Subjected-Him-To-Last-Time.”

“A proper fuck, eh.”

Neil shivers. Never have his own words sounded so absolutely erotic. “Y-yeah.”

“Okay, then.” Chris’s eyes, blush and voice have all grown darker. “Show me.”

_Show me._ That is, at once, a temptation and a threat. But someone is up to the challenge. He simply needs to be summoned.

_Oh, hello. Thanks for calling me. This is what I was born to do._

He presses Chris to the couch and kisses him, determined to get him as hot ‘n’ bothered as possible. This time, he doesn’t spend too long on the mouth; he descends, planting kisses on the chin, the jaw, and the throat. Just as well, as Chris is quite stubbly, and it’s a thrill to feel that under his lips. So new, so dirty, so masculine. Calling upon his knowledge of their last encounter, he slides his hand up Chris’s jumper (_huh, he’s got on a t-shirt_) and fans his fingers out, over one of Chris’s pecs. He rubs gently, hearing him tremble and awaken. _Oh yeah. I remember this._ Night Neil has an immaculate memory for what Chris likes. After all, he’s a hedonistic, sex-crazed demon with a giant crush on Chris, what good would he be if he didn’t? And yet, much to Neil’s surprise, he’s not all hulking, aggressive brute. If one of his manoeuvres isn’t getting a response, he lets it go. He’s tactical. Strategic. Shrewd. He’s…an awful lot like Neil himself, come to think of it.

“Fuck,” Chris says, by now shuddering with arousal. “Neil, get off for a sec.”

_Have I done something wrong?_ But then, with one sweeping motion, Chris has taken off his jumper. Underneath is a tight, white, threadbare t-shirt that clings to his form and hints at his chest hair. It's visible through the thin fabric. And it smells of his sweat, a fact that most certainly does not go unnoticed. The scent of another man’s body is striking on a deep and primal vein of lust in Neil, and he wants to do crazy things, like tear Chris’s shirt off with his teeth. The sofa will no longer suffice for any of these activities; he’s got somewhere else in mind.

“Hey,” he says, trying to sound innocent, guileless. “Wanna come have a look at my synthesiser?”

Chris grins. He knows what that means. Leaping off the couch, he takes Neil’s hand and practically skips to the bedroom.

Once they’ve arrived, Chris backs him into a corner and untucks the front of his jumper. Their eyes meet; Neil nods. Then, after a struggle in which Neil momentarily gets stuck, the cursed garment is off. As are his glasses, a casualty of this disaster—though Chris, to his credit, scoops them up and hands them to Neil before he can step on them. (It’s happened before. He misses those old horn rims.)

Neil settles the frames back on his face. “Smooth.”

“Excuse you, I did my best. It’s not as easy as it looks!”

“Oh pish posh, I bet I can do a better job.” He eyes up Chris, cataloguing all that he’s gonna have to do. First, de-stick-ify the shirt from his body. Then rub his chest some more and sneak in a cheeky tweak of the nips. Then massage his back, particularly that one spot between his shoulder blades. Then kiss him some more. Then…

“Any day now.”

“Hush, hush, my little crumpet,” he says, and that is definitely Night Neil talking—he’s never called anyone a crumpet in his life. Whatever. “Weren’t you the one who said we’ve got all the time in the world?”

“You and your pet names! Little crumpet…”

“Would you rather _big_ crumpet?”

“I’d rather no crumpet, thank you. Jeez.”

Chris hasn’t got too much time to complain, though, as Neil is beginning to execute step one of his master plan. The goal: to get him so worked up that he begs to get his shirt off. And after a careful, deliberate run-through of all the steps, it succeeds, with a growled “c’mon, _c’mon_” as Neil finally works back to the front of his chest. His eyes narrow down on Chris—he knows he can look quite evil if he tries—and Chris lifts his arms in supplication, as though offering himself to God. Something new is in his eyes. A spirit heretofore unseen: lewd, wild, and desperate. As Neil winds his hands in Chris’s shirt, he does feel rather godlike. He reflects on his thought from earlier, about affecting a change through his touch. This is deeper. It’s not just a change in temperature; it’s a shift of self.

Upon pulling off Chris’s shirt, the spirit takes hold of his body, straightening out his posture and unearthing that inner confidence that made Neil find him so sexy in the first place. He stands tall, the pride of etiquette books everywhere: chest out, shoulders back. He doesn’t slouch or shrink away, so Neil’s got no choice but to look. (As if this were a hardship.) Chris is certainly a hell of a lot hairier than he imagined, his chest dusted in tawny, soft-focus fluff. Very ‘70s porn star. And those nipples he’s been loving up on are brown, not pink, which is even hotter, somehow. His skin is pale and his shoulders are slanted and there’s a dark line of hair running from his navel down into his…his…

“I never told you how good you looked, did I,” says Chris, startling Neil. His voice has the quality of a revving motorbike, rumbly and low. “S’pose I forgot.”

“Me?”

“D’you remember?” Chris asks, though his accent turns the words into something closer to _d’ye remembah_. Christ, Neil could listen to him talk all day. As he closes the space between them, his hard-on happens to brush against Neil’s; with that, every last drop of moisture in his throat is gone. “When you whipped your shirt off in front of me.”

Why did he have to bring that up again? “Oh, Chris—”

“It was hot. You became…like an animal or something.”

“Animal, eh.” His fingers brush down Chris’s back in a gentle descent, feeling muscle, sweat, and bone. When they meet a soft, elastic waistband, his breath catches and his pulse seems to stop. In an attempt to moisten his mouth, he licks his lips, but Chris kisses him again. Hopeless. Simply hopeless.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” he goes on. “Like, a _lot._ More than a lot.” His gaze slides away, arousing some curiosity. What’s been on his mind? “I…”

“Yes?”

Slowly and hesitantly, he reaches out, cupping Neil’s chin and jaw. Neil can sense the strength in his hand as he holds him, and his eyes have darkened almost to pure black. Then he leans in, and the scruff of his face brushes past Neil’s cheek, still such an unfamiliar, delicious sensation. _A secret. I love secrets._ “…I wanna see you do the same thing with your trousers.”

Chris pulls away, looking as shocked as Neil feels. The two spirits, lust and fear, seem to be warring inside his soul as well. With that in mind, it’s a bit easier—but only a bit—for Neil to undo the clasp of his belt.

His trousers hit the floor with a _clunk._ He bends to remove his shoes and socks. He brushes himself off. And waits. There he stands, nearly naked and very hard, under Chris’s watchful eye. His boxers are the only thing separating him from complete and utter vulnerability. _He wants to see me,_ Neil tries to tell himself, but it’s difficult to convince himself when Chris won’t say anything at all. The silence gives room for his worries to spread like kudzu, and he starts to panic. “Chris. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Right now?”

“…well, yes.”

Chris bites his lip. His next command is also whispered, although _hissed_ may be more appropriate. “How about your keks?”

Neil freezes.

_Keks means your pants, you know._

_I know that. I’m not stupid._

_That’s not my point. He wants to see you naked._

_Does he? What if I’m not big enough? What if he takes one look at the full package and goes “no thanks”?_

_Neil, darling. You are gorgeous. Inside and out._

_I beg to differ._

_Fine. Tell you what. Do away with your own keks, and you’ll be one step closer to seeing his._

In spite of this incentive, it’s a highly unnerving experience to slide out of his boxers, and he can only manage it by shutting his eyes. After five tense, trembling seconds, he opens them and looks into Chris’s. Two coal-black eyes stare back, smouldering. No one else is in the room, so Chris must be looking at him.

_Told you so._

Chris’s gaze dips lower and lower till it lands on the purest, most visible expression of Neil’s desire. A tremor runs through him as he feels it being stroked, more curiously than anything. The touch, full of questions, draws a tidal wave of answers, wholly unexpected from them both. “You’ve done this to me. What you see here, Chris? I’ve never been this hard. The smell of you. The way you moan. The way you shudder.” He’s pulling Chris to him, undoing his belt, tugging down trousers and keks in one go. And he’s sinking to his knees, surrendering himself to his most powerful fantasy. The one that can get him off in thirty seconds flat.

_Bed,_ says his rational self.

_Here._

_Bed, you slut._

_Here._

_He’s not even got his shoes off. Bed._

_Here goes nothing._

A gasp fills his ears as he swallows Chris down. He may be going a bit too fast and trying to take too much, but dammit, he's found his life's purpose, and—

“Neil?”

“Mmm…”

“Neil.”

Dragging himself out of the depths of harlotry, he looks up. _Fuck. I’ve blown it. …and not just the thing currently in front of me._ He bites his lip. He's genuinely concerned about what Chris is thinking. Maybe he didn’t even want this. “Sorry.”

Chris tugs on Neil’s hand, pulling him back up, and gives him a kind smile. “No, no, it’s fine. But let’s do this on the bed, yeah?”

_Oh. OK._

Sheepishly, Neil follows Chris to the bed, where he gets to kick off his shoes, tug off his socks, and fully disrobe. When he’s done, he lies back, looking up. It’s good they moved, as it’s giving Neil a chance to properly appreciate Chris in the buff. His long and slender form is a treasure to take in. He really could have been a porn star in another life—not the overly muscly kind, but one of those beautiful boy-next-door types who keep everything _au naturel._ Nice hairy arms. Good hands, put to many valuable uses: sketching schemas, writing essays, playing music, groping Neil. Strong-looking legs, made to be parted and plundered. And, yes, that part of him, too. A shiny, nicely formed tool, curving up into the air, rosy pink in a garden of dark curls. _Huh,_ he thinks. _Here I am, naked with another man, admiring his knob. If that’s not proof by now…_

It takes some adjusting before they can find a suitable position for what Neil wants to do. His natural instinct is to lie down on his stomach in front of Chris, but as it turns out he’s drastically overestimated the length of his bed. Half of him is hanging off.

“Chris, you can’t—this isn’t comfortable for me—”

“Oh, should I scooch up?”

“Yes, please.”

“This OK?”

“Better. Hold on. Nope, still dangling.”

“Must be those long legs of yours. I've never had that problem.”

“Ha ha. Scooch up a bit more.”

“God, even in bed you boss me around. Alright. How d’you want me?”

“Let me count the ways…”

“OK, you’re no help. I’ll just—”

At the precise moment that Chris spreads his legs, Neil surges forward—and ends up plumb between them.

_Oh my._

“This isn’t bad,” Neil says approvingly, wrapping a hand round Chris’s hot, spit-slicked knob. He’s amazed to find that all his fear has vanished. There’s something comforting about having Chris’s nice sturdy thighs around him. It’s kind of like putting on a pair of headphones and getting to work. Then, if that’s not enough, he feels a hand in his hair, caressing his head and further unwinding him. He sinks into the touch, moaning. He loves it whenever anybody plays with his hair, makes him go mad. But he never expected it from Chris, of all people. Who knew he’d be such a tender lover?

Chris leans back against the headboard, his feet planted in Neil’s thick duvet. His upper half is propped up, while his lower half is firmly on the bed. “Yeah,” he replies. “I like the view.”

And such economy of language! It’s striking how one statement can be so sweet and so dirty at the same time. “Me too,” Neil says, because it’s true. “Too bad I’m about to ruin it.”

“Oh God.”

“No, for me.” Taking one last look at the beautiful bloke on his bed, he sighs and removes his glasses. “Can you put these on the nightstand? I’m afraid they’ll get all fogged up down here.”

Chris puts them away, and Neil thinks he can see him smiling. _Thinks_ being the keyword. The world is an indistinct blur—except round his cock, which is as sharp as ever. Neil’s not completely blind, and actually, he doesn’t mind this. It’s like a spotlight.

“You ever done this before?” he asks.

“Yeah. Course. Why?”

“‘Coz I haven’t.” The next question is accompanied by a meaningful rub of Chris’s inner thigh. “How d’you like it?”

“As lasciviously as possible.”

He should’ve known Chris wouldn’t come out with a straight answer. Very little of him is capable of being straight. “Talk about being no help…”

“I dunno. I’m not some expert in the arcane art of knob-polishing.”

“Knob-polishing! First lasciviously, now knob-polishing!”

“Huh. I woulda thought you’d go for _arcane._ I’ve been trying to improve my vocabulary.”

“Have you, now.” He is wanting to get started, but it’s also kind of fun just to chitchat with Chris while teasing the head of his cock. The whole me-Tarzan-you-Jane mood has faded slightly, and affection has crept in. They’re no longer animals, but people. Two people who are very fond of each other, and who’d like to express this fondness through the medium of touch. This can’t go as badly as last time; they’re both naked, Neil’s far more relaxed, and Chris is going first.

“Be impressed with me, will you,” says Chris, stomping his foot. (Which does not have the effect he wanted since it’s currently buried in layers of fluff.)

“Oh,” Neil exclaims, “it’s ‘coz of me!”

“Yes!”

“Aww.” He kisses the tip of Chris’s cock, so pretty and pink. His heart feels the same way, all lovely and blushing and warm. The image of Chris tucked away in some dusty old library, poring over thick, ancient dictionaries just to impress him, is funny and very sweet.

And, since Chris is no more forthcoming with advice than when they started, that’s the last thing left in Neil’s mind as he plunges down. No amount of swotting up could prepare him for this oral exam. He’ll learn like he did at _Smash Hits_: on the job. He goes slower than he did when he was on his knees, kissing, swirling his tongue round and sucking gently at the head. The first inch is sufficient for the time being. While he’s doing so, he tries to take this all in, like that new XTC single, what was it, something about the senses—_one-two-three-four-five senses working overtime?_ It’s very unlikely that good ol’ Partsy had blowjobs on the brain when writing that, but he’d probably approve. Plus he finds that engaging this mindset allows him to enjoy the experience that much more.

To his surprise, Neil discovers he likes everything about “knob-polishing”. The smell. The taste. The feel of a prick in his mouth, probing past his lips, warm and buzzing. The variety of things he can do with it: lick, suck, kiss, and stroke. The sounds of Chris’s moans whenever he does something that really gets him going. The sight—well, there isn’t much to see apart from what’s in the spotlight, but it’s still satisfying to rear back and view how hard Chris is, how slick and wet, and not just from Neil’s mouth.

Satisfying. Perhaps the greatest surprise is the psychological appeal. Learning how to give a good blowjob is fun, a challenge; the fact that he’s getting Chris off in the process is even better. It feels brilliant to be able to take a bit more with each dive down, to have Chris underneath him, shaking, letting out the odd curse. As someone who loves reducing his partners to a puddle of quivering jelly, it’s turning him on to an almost unfathomable degree, so much so that Chris’s moans are becoming his moans. They’re connecting, turning into one shivering creature: the beast with two tails.

“Hell,” Chris says, panting. “You did say you’ve never been with a bloke before, right? Where’d you learn to do all that?”

“Mmm. Practising on bananas.”

Chris laughs. He’ll never know how much of it is true. “Wish you could see yourself.” And then he stretches his arms and picks up Neil’s chin. “You look so bloody good with a knob in your mouth.”

The comment sends a shot of electricity down Neil’s spine. “Don’t—go saying things like that unless you want a repeat of last time.”

“Last time? How hard _are_ you?”

Neil’s heart pounds. Slowly, he turns over to reveal himself.

Chris says nothing for a while. It seems that he is well and truly gobsmacked. Without any reaction, Neil’s long-suppressed nerves begin to kick in. Suddenly, he’s once again the man who sat down in the cafe with a knot in his stomach, trying to convince himself that the boy opposite him, whose hand he’d just shook and whose smile shook him back, wasn’t fanciable. And he wonders: what happened to his pride? What happened to the fearlessness that buoyed his spirit only a few minutes ago? He scratches his stomach, feeling wound-up and vulnerable. After a while, it gets to be too much, and he lies on his side, hiding. Even Night Neil is shying away.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Chris asks.

The combination of extreme arousal and extreme anxiety is an odd feeling, and it is tough to push words past it. His typical eloquence is gone. “I dunno. I like this so much. I like you so much. But I don’t know if it’s right, or if you like me back.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well you weren’t saying anything, and…”

“Neil.” Chris gets up, comes close, and runs his fingers through Neil's hair. He can’t tell if that was a reassuring _Neil_ or a scolding _Neil_. Maybe both. “We’re not the same. You talk and talk and talk and talk—and that’s what I like about you, you’re such a…oh! Yes! Cicero!”

Neil smiles weakly. “Who’s he?”

“Roman orator. Thought you woulda known about him.”

The name vaguely rings a bell, but he wouldn’t have been able to pick it out in his exams. His smile grows bigger. More swotting up from a man who’s already a genius. “So? What’s this Cicero fellow got to do with me?”

“You talk. I show.” _Ohhhh._ “So don’t worry if I don’t say anything. Just means I’m plotting something.”

“Like?”

“Sit up for me, please.” Such politeness seems comical given the circumstances, but Neil bites back a laugh and does so—along with Chris, who then says, very mysteriously, “I think your bed is big enough.”

“For?”

“Shh. It’s a surprise.” Then he shuffles backwards and tugs at Neil’s legs, so that he’s curled into Chris and Chris is curled into him.

_Oh. My. God._

“Only ever managed this once,” Chris says, his mouth inches away from Neil’s cock. He rubs the inside of Neil’s thigh, drawing out a needy gasp. “But when I saw you, I just…”

_When he saw me. Just now, or when we first—_

But the thought is cut off by the feel of Chris’s soft, hot, wet mouth.

For a few seconds, he exists purely in the world of sensation, where no fear can live. His toes curl up, his eyes close, and he lies there, moaning. It’s Night Neil who brings him back to reality, giving him some very helpful advice. _Learn from him. See what he’s doing, and do it to him._ Chris has clearly practised on more than just bananas, and Neil can pull some of his tricks. He hoists himself up with the aid of Chris’s thigh and tongues the head of his prick, mimicking the delightful way he’s currently being teased. In response, Chris digs his fingers into his leg, almost painfully, but Neil kind of likes that. Means he’s getting close. He licks again, giggles, and sucks Chris properly, like he deserves.

Soon, they both work out how to do this. The point isn’t to be perfectly in sync, to be doing the exact same thing at the exact same time, but to pass pleasure back and forth. After thirty minutes spent working away at a fairly big knob, Neil’s jaw is pretty tired, so he spends much of the time giving Chris a bit of hand action while he gets the oral treatment. _He likes sucking cock,_ Neil thinks, thrillingly. _He loves it. And now he’s down there sucking mine. God he’s good at it. And we do fit on the bed. He was right. Must be that architect’s brain of his, figuring out where things go and all that. Okay, you’ve had your break, time to get back on the job._ He strokes Chris’s sides and takes him halfway down the shaft, which is an enormous triumph considering where he started. It’s an even bigger triumph when he hears words—actual words—being spoken.

“Fuck, Neil, I…I didn’t know…”

“What?”

Chris stops there. He’s got a rather vexing habit of leaving his sentences unfinished right at the moment you’d want to hear them continue. Neil’s not sure if this is accidental or deliberate, but either way, it never fails to send his imagination into overdrive. Yet at this moment, he’s got the sense that this is a good thing, judging by the colour of Chris’s words—saturated in rapturous, day-glo ecstasy. He wants more.

He shifts so that he’s on top of Chris, giving him a dizzying feeling of power, and borrows from his vast catalogue of tricks. Running his mouth along either side of it, licking it from base to tip, humming and moaning and drawing out all the sounds that gave him so much pleasure to hear. The feedback loop of sixty-nine is like nothing else—endless echoes of sensation, reverberating in his head, even if only one of them is at work. Now he’s switched back to wanking, to give himself a break and to see Chris. His grand vision of _more_ is quickly becoming specific. He wants to discover the world of sex and love with another man. He wants to make music this good. He wants—

“Neil!”

—his name in neon lights, just like that.

Chris is shuddering, and it takes a few seconds for Neil to realise what he’s just done. When he does, it’s a mad scramble to find his glasses and 180 himself so he’s on top again, but face-to-face. Now he can see the moment in 20/20: Chris, beneath him, in the throes of post-orgasmic bliss.

“Wow,” he breathes. “Thanks.”

Neil bends down and gives him a kiss. “My pleasure.”

“Did you come?”

“Shh. No. Not yet.” Ignoring his current predicament, he runs his clean hand down the side of Chris’s face, examining his handiwork. The smile, the dazed expression, the messy hair and the flushed skin—and beyond the visual, the tremors, the slick patch on his stomach, even the smell of him to some degree—were all brought on by his hand and mouth. He lets the knowledge settle in, feeling an overwhelming sense of pride. “I can’t believe I did that to you.”

“It’s not hard to make a man come,” Chris points out.

“I know. I am one. But…” He tries to formulate this theory in a way that Chris won’t instantly debunk it. “I think there’s a difference between coming and orgasming.”

“Er, nice thought, but last time I checked, they were synonymous…”

“Synonymous, eh. Did you get that from one of your dictionaries?”

Chris swats him lightly. “I’m not a complete dunce. Go on.”

Neil pauses, working out the next part of his principle. “Coming’s like, what you do in the evening when no one’s around and you need to get off. Just a physical release. Whereas orgasming…you shiver, you shake, your whole body gets into it. There’s an emotional release.” _Is it too much to say this?_ “And I think I made you orgasm.”

He waits for the inevitable contradiction. But instead, Chris rolls over, pinning him with a hand on either side and a piercing look. (It pays to have on his glasses.) Then, before he can react, Chris has crawled back down to his needy, unspent cock, which gives a twitch of anticipation. “You did,” he says quietly, brushing the tip.

“Chris…”

“Now I’m wonderin’ if I can do it to you.” He moistens his lips and wiggles his fingers, as if prepping. “Wha’d’you prefer? Hand or mouth?”

The cheek of that question! But Neil can’t pretend he doesn’t love this new take-charge attitude. It’s a real turn-on for a lover to be so frank with him, and even more when he considers the options. “Your mouth, please.”

“Please,” Chris repeats, amused, before mouthing the head of his prick. As he sucks, Neil begins to contemplate all the ways that word is used. It does sound rather nice on the tongue. _Please. Please and thank you. Please please me. Please release me, let me go. Please, please, **please.**_ Soon the word becomes a mantra, something to spin his mind around as Chris takes him apart. Chris is not showing him any mercy—no deep plunges, no hands, no nothing. Just the slow, skilled motion of his lips and tongue. Of course, maybe that’s the point. To draw out as many almost-there pulses as possible, to get that euphoric tingle in his arms and legs, to make it really, really good.

“Can I try something?” Neil asks, his voice barely a whisper.

“Go for it.”

Astounding. Chris doesn’t even know what he’s about to do. Neil lowers a tentative hand to the back of Chris’s head, curls his fingers in his hair and draws him down. And he obeys. Thrilled, Neil shifts closer, narrowing the gap between his thighs, so that Chris is caught inside.

“Yeah,” he says, pulling away and looking up at Neil. “I like that. God, your legs go on for days.”

“Chris,” Neil warns him, pushed even closer to the edge. This talk of his legs is extremely risky when Chris is not sucking him off. He better get back on him post-haste, or the consequences could be disastrous.

“Weeks. Years. Light-years.”

“Light-years aren’t a measure of—oh, fuck, Chris!”

This is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, an orgasm. Not one of those piddly get-me-off climaxes that lasts all of three seconds. This is the real deal. Tightening his grip on Chris’s head, he shoots again and again, each shot infusing more of his body with pleasure, till it’s finally over and he can lay his head to rest. He can feel the orgasm in areas it doesn’t normally reach: the face, the feet, the tips of his fingers. All the life in him has gone down Chris’s throat, and he lies there, incredibly tired and incredibly satisfied.

He could probably go to sleep right here, in fact. But there are a number of reasons why that wouldn’t be a good idea. First of all, it’s so typical male—conk off after a good climax, leaving his partner sad and unsatisfied. Second, they’re due for a good shower, as they’ve both got the after-effects of Chris’s orgasm on them. (Neil takes a weird sort of pride in the fact that _he_ didn’t leave a mess.) Third, he wants to cuddle. A plan is forming: shower, then brush teeth, then cuddle, then sleep.

“C’mon. Up ‘n’ at ‘em,” he says, as much to himself as to Chris. He tugs him away from his crotch (why is he still buried there?) and sits up.

“What, you’re not even gonna thank me? Did I make you _orgasm?_”

Neil grins. He’s in the mood for a bit of joshing. “Is that standard procedure for gay sex? You’re supposed to thank your partner? Am I to write a little thank-you note and send it in the post? _To the man who fucked me in the loo at Heaven, thank you very much for the reach-around. Best regards, Chr—_”

Here comes the second swat of the day, this one well deserved. “You’re lucky I like you so much. Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Shower. Both of us. And yes, that was a terrific orgasm. You’ll get your note in a couple days, I suspect.”

“Dammit, Neil, I’m trying to be serious here. You said—”

“Right, sorry.” Chris sits down beside him, heavy as a rock on the small bed, and Neil listens to the sound of his breathing. Slowly, it comes to him how extraordinary this is, to have this man next to him, naked, after a lovely, thoughtful date and a night of stunningly good sex. With him. With Chris! He puts that as his starting place and lets the words flow from there. “Thank you. For today. For tonight. For ringing me up when I’m at work, and taking me to Heaven, and writing all those songs with me. For taking a chance on a ‘straight’ bloke who had no idea what he wanted. For being such a steady presence in my life, like the sun. You brighten my day, you leave me feeling warm, and…I can't even think of life without you, anymore.”

“You’re…welcome.” The speech has left Chris visibly moved. “What about…you know…this?”

With an imaginary pen, he scrawls out the review in the air. “Spectacularly intense. Sensational. Revelatory. A brand new experience. Sex Of The Fortnight.”

“You gonna put me in your next ish, then?”

“Absolutely. ‘Readers, I had a fantastic experience with a man last night. You should give it a try!’”

“Where would you even put that?”

“Where else? On the front page!”

Chris smiles, plants a peck on his cheek, and tugs him up. Neil is surprised at how easy it is to be lifted, but then, he probably shouldn’t be—he’s feeling lighter than air. He lets Chris drag him into the shower, where his weak, wonderfully worn-out body is cleaned, rinsed, and dried with care and affection. Chris doesn’t say much, and for once, there’s no need. He was right; he doesn’t talk, he shows.

The cleanliness Neil feels as he steps into his bedroom is not merely of body, but of mind and soul too. He wasn’t aware of how many worries were caught in the dim, unswept corners of his head, nor of the great moral debates that raged inside his spirit, till they were laid out in front of him. Whether he’d like it. Whether he’d ruin it like last time. Whether it was right to enjoy this so much. Whether he could make Chris come. Whether he could let himself love a man. It was here, on this bed, that he contended with these troubles and trounced them one by one.

But it was also here that his selves merged. He could feel it happening as they were sucking each other off. It was the most glorious sensation—all of his selves getting on, trading tips, becoming one human being. And Night Neil was the unexpected star of the show. His friend, his cheerleader, his teacher, his saviour. Neil liked him. Everyone liked him. Embraced by his fellow spirits, he fused into them, finally whole.

This is a lot to take in. He climbs into bed with Chris, the basics of proper postcoital etiquette another mystery. How _does_ one cuddle with a man? Is it the same as with a woman? Or…manlier?

“C’mere,” Chris says softly. “Turn with your back to me. I wanna hold you.”

_Well, that’s not very manly, is it._ He can’t help but laugh.

“What?”

“I’ve never been the one to _be_ held. It was always the reverse.”

“Would you rather do that, then?”

“…no,” Neil says, smiling.

This should be interesting. He turns, and Chris leans over him, his body nice and warm, smelling of soap and a little bit of sex. Neil likes that, actually. Reminds him of how close they were before. He shuts his eyes.

Being wrapped in another man’s arms is heavenly. They’re even closer now, but Chris keeps trying to get closer, pressing him, squeezing him, sliding a leg between his so that they can be tangled up in each other. When he’s finally satisfied, he sighs against Neil, as though it were physically painful not to touch him before. Then comes a gentle rain of kisses down his neck.

Each kiss, soothing as it is, seems to spur on a question. Is Chris this cuddly with his other lovers? Or is it just him? The way Chris is holding him—fond, protective, even possessive—does that mean anything? Could Chris’s feelings possibly match his own? What are his own feelings, anyway? _Oh for fuck’s sake_, says his tired, beleaguered brain. _Get some rest. Think about it in the morning._

And he almost does. He almost falls asleep, cocooned in Chris’s arms under their thick duvet. But one niggling thought manages to escape before his brain can stop it.

“You…_do_ like me, right?”

“You serious?” Chris dots one last kiss on his neck. “I adore you.”

Neil’s eyes snap open.


	12. Inundation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil and Chris work out a plan for world domination, and set it in action. But it may all be undone on one fateful Sunday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, why are my chapters getting so long. This is my longest chapter yet, and the most challenging one, too. But hopefully it's worth it.
> 
> BIG MASSIVE SHOUTOUT to [jaxx69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaxx69/pseuds/jaxx69) for all her insanely hard work helping me out with this - going over lots of plot points, helping me arrange the structure of this chapter, and generally giving me the best beta ever. I owe you one, bud 💚💜💚💜💚💜💚💜💚💜💚💜
> 
> Oh, and whoops, apparently I've still got more story to tell. So this isn't gonna be the last chapter. That will be the NEXT one 😎

“W_…_w_…_”

_Who is that?_

“_…_where’s the budder_…_”

_Oh, that’s Chris._

“_…_c’mon, ah can’t eat a scone w’ffout budder…”

_Naked. In my bed. Muttering to himself about scones._

At once, the memory of last night hits him, and the reason for Chris’s nakedness becomes obvious. What isn’t obvious is how he wound up in Neil’s arms, when Neil distinctly remembers it being the reverse. He doesn’t mind though. Quite the contrary. Having his arm curled tight round Chris’s chest, fuzzy legs against fuzzy legs, the duvet a forgotten mess at their feet_—_it all feels natural to Neil. Like he should have been doing this all along.

A mild tremor starts in his chest, maybe a Richter 2. Enough to shake his soul a little and scatter bits of anxiety round his psyche. _Shouldn’t I be over this by now?_ he wonders, slightly irritated. He’s done with the earth-shaking revelations. He’s gay. He likes men. A whole lot. And he’s had some time to get adjusted to that reality. So why is it that now_—_after spending the day and the night and now the morning with Chris as his lover_—_his nerves have returned? Wasn’t that the big happy ending? A wild night of sexual abandon with another man? Followed by _I adore you_? (Oh my.)

“_…_yeah, none o’that cheap marg’rine crap, gimme the real thing, yeah, thassit…proper budder…”

And more importantly, what _is_ Chris on about?

As he listens to the passionate prattle of a man hell-bent on getting the correct spread for his scones, Neil can feel the dust settling in his soul. He notes, with pleasure, how these spikes of anxiety have been getting shorter and shorter. At the very beginning, they could grip him for hours on end, even days. Now they can be over in a matter of seconds. _Yeah, I like this_, he thinks, flicking away each worry. _It’s Chris! In my bed! And I’m cuddling him! And he adores me! What’s not to like?_

A rude impulse darts through his mind, like a streaker. He doesn’t just have to cuddle here. He can do other things. When Chris is finally done rambling, Neil shifts so he’s pressed against the crack of his arse.

“Hey.” This will only be effective if he remains completely deadpan. “I’ve got a generous knob of it right here.”

Chris startles awake. “Fuck! Neil!”

“Good morning to you, too.”

After a terrifying second of rigidity, Chris relaxes, tucking his head in the crook of Neil’s neck. “So, one night with a man and you’re already goosing him awake.” His voice is low and sleepy. Throaty.

“Is that not proper etiquette? I thought it said, in The Beginner’s Guide to Buggery_—_”

“The Beginner’s Guide to what? I coulda used that book. I’ve no idea what I’m doing.”

_Join the club_, Neil thinks, mouthing along Chris’s neck and bathing in the smell of him. Soap, shampoo, sweat and sex, blending into one fabulous cologne that inspires both familiar comfort and sensual desire. He leaves a wet patch on the first notch of Chris’s spine, a sort of reminder: you’re mine. Then the deeper implications of what Chris is saying settle in, and he gets confused. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve_…_never had, like, a proper boyfriend.”

Now it’s Neil’s turn to shriek “what????”

“Ow. What’d I tell you about yelling right next to me ear?”

“You’ve never had a boyfriend,” he repeats, flabbergasted. A man like Chris, young, intelligent, self-assured and a total dish? How could he not get scooped up?

“No.”

“Okay then, what about a girlfriend?”

Chris stirs, yawns, and turns in Neil’s arms. Now he’s looking at him, which only drives the point home. Anyone would kill to have a boy like this as their own. His sleepy eyes, which refuse to open more than a millimeter, are terribly alluring, as are his petulant, pouting lips. Though they’ve slept for_—_Neil squints at his alarm clock_—_ten hours, Chris looks like he could stay in bed all day. “What’s with the third degree, Nebs? No. I like men.”

“But I thought_…_you_…_you’re so cool.”

It’s odd watching the smile of someone who’s almost asleep; there’s no telling what’s going on in those eyes. “You’re the only one who’s ever found me cool, mate.”

“But you are!”

Chris begins to shake, which mystifies Neil until he realises what it is. Laughter.

“What?!”

“I’m not cool,” he insists, eyes fluttering open. “Anyone will tell you that. I’m a twerp. Always have been.”

“Then…” Neil thinks about the boy he saw at the synth shop all those months ago, clad in chic, impassive black from head to toe. He was surrounded by an aura of untouchable chill, so much so that merely standing in his light felt like an insult. Already he seemed to be a star, and though Neil has managed to touch him, to get as close to him as humanly possible, he still seems stellar. In Neil’s hands is the brightest star in the sky: Sirius, glittering and vulpine. “I get it. You’re lying. You’re cool, but you’re trying to be self-deprecating so that you’ll be even more likeable. Clever boy.”

“I’m not tryin’ to be self-deprecatin’_…_hell, Neil, I was just havin’ a dream you brought me a mountain of those scone thingies you made, and all I could think was how fab the room was. These massive ten-foot ceilings, and giant white columns that reached all the way up, and crown moulding at the top and bottom, real ornate, like. Little birds and flowers and stuff along the edges. It was beautiful.”

Neil is tremendously endeared. He makes a mental note to ask Chris about the rest of the dream later, it’ll be lovely to see him come alive again like this. “So?”

“That’s like, the opposite of cool.”

“Alright, fine, what about the first time we met? Didn’t you get on my case for being a geek? A complete geek, as I remember. Almost like you were rubbing your coolness in my face. You were so smooth.”

“Yeah,” Chris says slowly, as though this should be dead obvious. “That’s what you do when you’re on the pull.”

The words hit Neil with a sudden force, and he blinks in shock. “You were trying to pull me?”

“I thought _you_ were trying to pull _me!_ You wouldn’t stop cruising me.”

“Cruising?”

“Pulling for poofs.”

What a perfect turn of phrase! Neil’s got to write that one down. “Let me get my notebook,” he says, laughing and unwrapping himself so he can do just that. “Pulling for poofs. I love it.”

“Well that’s what it is! I was stood there thinking, what’s this guy doing, trying to cruise me in a hi-tech shop?”

“I wasn’t, I was just_…_dumbfounded.”

Chris snorts. “Of course. Because I was _so cool._ Gimme a break. Looking for your glasses?”

“_…_yeah, that would help, wouldn’t it.” He’s in such a state of drowsy contentment that he’s completely forgotten about his specs. That’s not happened in years.

Chris stretches and finds them where he left them last night, on his dresser. But instead of handing them over, he slides them on his own face. “Whoa, Neil, what the hell.”

Having miraculously managed to find his notebook and a pen, Neil brings both into bed with him, taking a moment to gaze at this four-eyed creature in his glasses. Rather infuriatingly, he still looks cute in them. Cuter than Neil. “What?”

“I can’t see a thing. Feels like I’ve got a migraine.”

“Well, give ‘em to me then,” says Neil, rolling his eyes. “They’re my glasses.”

“Wait. Wait. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I’m right next to you, Chris. That’s a fist.”

“Well done. You pass.” And with that, Chris, magnanimous as ever, grants Neil the chance to see again.

As the familiar scrawl of his notes comes into view, he touches the pages briefly, wondering just how much of this would have failed to exist without the boy next to him. He flips to the nearest empty page, or rather half-page, and draws a thin blue line across. Then he jots down _pulling for poofs._

With his vision fully restored, he can clearly see the interest that sparks in Chris’s eyes. Each idea has been written in a different colour and script, and Chris traces a particular couplet, done in loopy orange, with his finger. “Is this about me?”

“_…_that’s for me to know, and you to find out.”

It’s quite possibly the lamest comeback ever, but thankfully Chris doesn’t make a big deal out of it, preferring to probe into the line itself. “I’m not 'nervous', am I? But ‘concentrated frown’, I’ll give you. Hey, you know what’d be a good idea? Write a song about cruising. But like, sung by someone who’s been there, done that.”

“Ugh, I hate that expression.”

“What? Been there, done that, got the t-shirt?”

Neil groans. “Yes.” And then groans some more once Chris nicks the pen, shoves himself in front of the journal, and commits those very words to paper.

“You’re welcome,” he says, passing it back to him with a gloating grin.

“This journal is tainted.”

Chris curls up close and gives him a gentle, loving nudge, enough to put a pin in his melodrama. “Oh, cheer up.”

Apparently, he doesn’t know that Neil’s exceedingly cheerful already. Cheerful and relieved. Part of him had the irrational fear that once they’d slept together, they wouldn’t ever write anything again. The creative component of their relationship would vanish in a puff of smoke. But no, they’re cuddling and trading song ideas in bed, a blissful thought that never would have occurred to Neil as a possibility. As they talk about this song_—_which does not need to be called “Been There, Done That (Got the T-Shirt)”, despite Chris’s insistence_—_he finally begins to capture the true sum of everything that Chris has done for him.

In short, he dug up two seeds in Neil’s soul and planted them in the earth, allowing them to flourish with water, light and sun. The twin blooms of songwriting and sexuality have grown and twisted together, so that now, he’s talking not just about cruising songs, but all sorts of songs that could have significance for men like them. Art that could reflect an untold experience. And a different kind of art_—_not folksy protest songs, but disco music, written, played, and sung by its primary audience. It’s such a simple idea, yet it has the power to be revolutionary. Chris is totally on-board, and from there, they work out a plan.

* * *

They don’t rush themselves. They’ve got plenty of time. Four more months, to be exact, as Chris is here for the winter term. And in the span of that time, they find even more ways to nourish the twisted bloom.

Chris brings him to more of his favourite clubs, and this time they do actually talk about the music, watching, observing and listening. At a few of them, they become regulars, infamous for standing at the edge of the dance-floor and commenting on everything. Makes them look quite bitchy, a fact that’s not helped by Neil’s increasingly acid tongue. More than once, he’s run into a few people whose records he slagged in the seemingly anonymous pages of his pop rag. People who recognise him by name, and aren’t too pleased by his honesty. So, in an effort to combat this image, Chris occasionally drags him out to the dance-floor, as if to say ‘we’re not superior, we’re just like you’. On rare occasions, he’ll drag Neil away from the crowd, a sly finger crooked in the waistband of his jeans, and take them to the nearest wall, where they proceed to physically prove how just-like-you they are to the other patrons. Purely for appearance’s sake, of course.

Neil, for his part, knows a tonne of old record shops_—_perks of working at a pop glossy_—_so he plans little weekend excursions around them. He looks up all the ones within a given area, phones Chris, and tells him where they’re going this Saturday. Chris is a wonderful partner, fun, clever, and always game for a new visit, and best of all, he’s a fast walker. They stalk the streets at a good clip, armed with a map and Chris’s keen sense of direction. When they enter the shop, Neil typically takes a quick glance at the new releases, then joins Chris at the discount bins. Good thing disco is so unfashionable these days; they’re practically giving these records away. The shop assistants are invariably surprised to find a willing audience for this junk, but they’re never so shocked that they won’t accept the boys’ money. And off they go on their merry way, a pound poorer and a dozen records richer. Some of which are very good, as they find out later in the privacy of Neil’s bedroom.

That’s not the only thing they do there, though. Sometimes, their musical chemistry sparks so bright that it tips over into sexual chemistry. This has happened in at least three different ways. Often, Chris will be going on about a topic that passions him, for better or for worse, and Neil will watch, fingers tingling, until it gets to be too much. Or one of them will hit upon a morsel of melody and sing it to the other, and that’s all it takes. It’s not one-way, either; an unexpected discovery is that Chris likes Neil’s voice just as much. Speaking and singing. That soft, silly voice of his has been called upon to do loads more than he ever dreamed of, all at Chris’s behest, and each time he does something new, it gives him a strange sense of titillation. And that’s way #3, his favourite. Being pushed vocally seems to affect the rest of his body, too_—_a visceral reminder of its potential.

Most memorably, Chris once played a scale on the Roland, with Neil standing beside him and matching each note_—_lower and lower, then higher and higher. A test of his vocal range, like an audition for the school choir. But somehow this felt different. He wasn’t nervous, he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. Chris wasn’t a teacher assessing whether or not he could be a proper soprano, or whatever it was. The focus wasn’t on limits, but potential. So when his voice broke at each of the ends, they giggled and moved on, and when Chris brought him back to that highest successful note and had him sing it again, he experienced something akin to nirvana.

“Impressive,” Chris said, jotting down a few notes in the journal, which lay open next to him.

Neil felt himself blush. “Is it?”

“Yeah. Another try?”

“Oh God, I don’t think I can manage it a third time.” For then he realised his throat was tightening, and there was a rush of blood to his head.

Chris simply laid his finger down on the key, creamy and white, and like a marionette, Neil spoke. Then it moved to the black, and Neil could feel that new note coming out of him, and none of his thoughts were about musical theory anymore. He had this big, exhilarated smile on his face and sweat running down his back. The note had shot through his legs and wound up somewhere in his toes, which were beginning to curl, and all the while Chris was watching him with his own smile, as though he knew what he had done.

“You get off on this sort of thing, don’t you?” he asked, rising from his perch.

Neil nodded, amazed that he could nod so brazenly. In a perverse way, he was even a bit proud. Wasn’t that part of being a singer? An utter lack of shame, and a sense of total bodily abandon? Like Donna Summer, flat on her back in the studio, moaning her heart out.

“You weirdo,” Chris said, his smile growing into a grin. There was no malice in his words, only affection. And a subtle hint of lust, sweet and essential, like vanilla.

He shut off the machine, took Neil to the bed, and turned him into Donna Summer, right then and there.

* * *

As they pull into April, the future holds ever more promise. He’s settled into his job, and he’s slowly been given more responsibilities, which he hoards like gold. Reviews, news, the odd interview. Finally a chance to stretch his journalistic muscle and put his quite formidable powers to work. It’s great to put his name on something he’s actually proud of. Plus, they’ve also bestowed upon him the holy honour of jukebox duty, which he mostly uses to play a lot of Change and Sylvester records. He’s determined to make his coworkers see the creativity and joy of disco music, if only so that when he and Chris rule the airwaves in a few years, they’ll be predisposed to liking this music. Prediscosed, if you will.

Oh, and speaking of his coworkers. Now that Chris has started to drop by the office, a couple of them have put two and two together: this is the one who’s made Neil smile so much on the phone, who’s lengthened his lunch breaks, etc. And when the more perceptive ones have asked him, Neil has found the courage to say _yes. Yes I’m gay, yes he’s my boyfriend,_ and _yes, I’ve never been happier._ Being honest about it is scary, but it’s worth the lurch in the gut and the tremors in the chest; every time he comes out, he seems to take one more step towards becoming himself.

What’s more, spring is in the air. It’s never been his favourite season, but it is Chris’s. He takes Neil on long walks and points out the bright green buds on the trees, the sweet smells of lilac and honeysuckle, and the birds whistling their cheery morning tunes. The rebirth of the Earth is in season, and even the drizzle can’t bring Neil down. Now that he’s bought a flashy black mac and a pop-art umbrella, he’s facing the dreary weather with aplomb.

But there are sunny days, too_—_first a few popping up here and there, then a whole swath of them leading into May. Each day, another cloud is whisked away from the sky, till he finds himself on the morning of May 2nd, staring at a clean, endless oasis of blue. Two dozen scones_—_proper scones, not singin’ hinnies_—_are in the oven when he gets a call.

“So, how about a double date?”

_Not even a proper hello._ “Hmm?”

“Remember? The double D’s want a double date. Today.”

“Double D’s? Like a bra? I’m sorry, Chris, but if you think I’ll be crossdressing any time soon, you’ve got another think_—_”

A great big blustering noise emerges from the receiver, and Neil can almost hear Chris rolling his eyes. “Danny and Dev. And Bianca. And_…_Jimmy.”

_Right!_ Neil remembers all of those names_—_especially the last one, who’s frequently been the subject of Chris’s Moan of the Day. Seems they’re always at odds with one another, Chris and Jim. Oil and water. The most effusive compliment Chris has ever paid him is “well, at least he’s up on his rent.”

“Hope you don’t mind,” Chris continues. “He wants to see if this Danny is the same Danny he fancied growing up. I’m like, 99% sure it isn’t, but try telling him that. Oh, and he wants to meet you.”

Neil’s heart starts to thump worryingly. Meeting three of Chris’s friends at once, even if he’s already met the first two and the third isn’t really a friend, is a daunting prospect. It’s one step removed from meeting Chris’s parents_—_or at least, it feels that way. What if they don’t approve? What if later, they go on and on about what a nerd Chris is dating? Or Neil says completely the wrong thing and proceeds to make a cock-up of himself and the date, turning all four of them off forever? Or worse, five? What if even the dog doesn’t like him after this?

“What’s the menu?” he asks, trying to control the quaver in his voice.

Luckily, Chris doesn’t notice. “A lot of finger food. All veggie. The D’s are doing these fill-your-own pitta thingies, and I think Jimmy’s bringing some pastries from work. Me, I’ve just bought a tray of _crudités._”

“Ah, well done. Still slaving over a hot dictionary, I see.”

“Oh, shove off. What are you bringing?”

“Well you’ve only just told me I’m coming. Gimme a sec.” As he pauses, the smell of butter wafts by Neil’s nose, temptingly. Bingo. Why not bring these? They’re good. Bloody good. Good enough to smooth over the worst verbal gaffe. “How do freshly baked scones sound?”

“I dunno. Never heard ‘em talk.”

“Clever clogs. Am I meeting you at your place?”

“Yeah, you come here. I’ll introduce you to Jimmy. See you at 11:30?”

“_Avec les scones._”

“Erm_…oui._”

Hearing that one little word of French makes Neil’s heart soar. “_Au revoir, mon cheri._”

And with that, he’s now got a double date. (Triple? What does two couples, a fifth wheel and a dog add up to, exactly?)

* * *

For some reason, Neil pictured Jimmy as this big, buff, gruff lad, towering well above him and Chris and everyone in his path. _Fee, fi, fo, fum, I smell the blood of a Geordie man._ But that is not the bloke who answers the door. This one’s a perfect gingerbread man, redheaded and plain-featured and very, very small.

“Are you_…_Jimmy?” Neil ventures to ask. Maybe he got the wrong bloke. Maybe that's the other one.

“Aye. And you’re the Neil, I imagine.”

_The Neil._ Been a while since he was called that, and it takes him aback. He promptly forgets all good behaviour and blurts out the first thing on his mind. “Yeah. Sorry, I thought you’d be taller.”

_Oh, well done. Made a prat of yourself already._ He shuffles awkwardly, wanting a do-over. Wind back reality a few seconds and have Neil introduce himself with equilibrium, poise, and good humour, reaching out a confident hand and saying “Hi, I’m Neil.” But there’s no chance of that now.

“Huh,” says Jimmy, raising an eyebrow. He doesn’t put out his own hand, preferring to size Neil up. “Nice to meet you. Chris never told me you were such a charmer.”

“Ah, yes.” Neil taps the side of his face knowingly, hoping to put a self-deprecating spin on the whole affair and save some face. “I’m always one for brilliant first impressions. Has he ever told you the story of how we met?”

“Nooooooo, don’t tell him,” comes a voice from the kitchen. Soon Chris emerges with a colourful plastic tray and a look of great chagrin. The former makes sense; the latter does not. Doesn’t he know that it’s Neil who embarrassed himself more the first time?

“Oh, I’ve got to hear this,” coos Jimmy, and Chris gives him an icy glare. They remind Neil of a pair of squabbling brothers, forever at each other’s throats for the stupidest things. “What? You never gave me the full story.”

“What part of private life do you not understand? Apart from the entire concept, I mean.”

“Ooh, back in the knife drawer, ducks. But hey, since you brought it up,” he says, turning to Neil, “how did you meet?”

Neil looks up at Chris and, in response to his genuine expression of panic, mouths a quick ‘trust me’. “Simple case of miscommunication. But hey, why don’t we talk about this at the picnic? Saves me having to repeat it. It really is a dreadfully boring tale.” He gives Chris a wink. With enough distraction, maybe they won’t need to bring it up at all.

“Eh, alright. Hang on a minute, I’ll grab me bread.” _That’s good, it won’t make my scones redundant._ Jimmy goes to the not-quite-white fridge_—_the place is a bit of a pigsty, Neil notes disdainfully_—_and pulls out a plain white loaf.

“You keep your bread in the fridge?” Neil asks, confused.

“This is fresh bread, darling! It spoils in a day if you keep it in the cupboard!”

Before Jimmy can hear, Chris leans in and whispers, “Fresh bread. He gets day-old from the bakery and pretends it’s fresh. Pretends he made it, too.”

Neil smiles; in a true stroke of luck, when Jimmy comes back, he thinks it’s a warm, kindly smile rather than one at his expense. “We ready to go, then? Ooh, I’m so excited. I hope that’s the Danny I used to love. I can just picture him…”

“Ready, I think,” says Chris.

“Ready,” echoes Neil.

* * *

Jimmy is not a bad person. He’s friendly, funny, and forthright. But the reason for his fundamental incompatibility with Chris soon becomes clear. It’s not just the stupidest things that get them riled up; it’s far deeper. When he asks Chris whether he’s coming to the next pride parade_—_on a crowded tube ride, in front of dozens of people_—_a storm begins to brew. And after a few heated comments that threaten to point all eyes on them, Neil has to step in and divert the conversation.

After that, he’s got a good sense of them both, and why they would disagree so vehemently. Chris guards his private life like a treasured artefact and doesn’t let people in easily. He also tends to think it’s nobody’s business who he’s fucking. Jimmy, meanwhile, seems to treat that as an affront. He’s out and proud, and he’s not sure why someone wouldn’t want to be. The personal is political with him, and Neil’s pretty sure he heard him say the phrase “coming out is a revolutionary act” before the fight was broken up. Chris had described him as “militant”, and while Neil admires that attitude, in a way, he understands the other side, too. He’s not yet sure how “out” he wants to be himself.

When they reach Hampstead Heath, Neil spots the trio immediately_—_the happy couple and their napping dog, on a colourful paisley blanket. Neil makes a beeline straight for Bianca, who by some miracle is oblivious to the food she’s surrounded by. Possibly because it’s all veggie. Beside her is a stack of pittas, along with an assortment of accoutrements: hard-boiled eggs, mashed potato, grated cheese, a spiced cauliflower filling, roasted veg, tabbouleh, fresh coriander, and hummus. Plus a few other dips, which will go nicely with Chris’s tray of _crudités._

“Wow,” Neil says, taking in the dazzling array of delectables. “What a spectacular spread. You went all out!”

“It was mostly Dev,” Danny replies, as his boyfriend blushes. “He just kept coming up with these ideas.”

“Well, it looks positively ambrosian. A Bacchanalian feast.” _Nobody likes a know-all_, chides his inner schoolteacher, and he sits down heavily next to Bianca, thinking what a pompous arse he’s just made of himself. “Sorry, I’m a bit nervous.”

“Why?” asks Danny, smoothing out the blanket and scooting over so that they can all sit on it. “You’ve already met us.”

“It’s not that, it’s just…” There is something at the bottom of his subconscious that he can’t quite put his finger on. Something deeper than a simple case of the jitters. Fear. Fear with a subtle veneer of shame. Great, he’s identified the emotion, but not the main worry underneath. Completing the sentence _what are you afraid of_ feels impossible at the moment_—_the shame is too strong. So instead, he talks about the symptom rather than the fear. “I tend to get_…_verbose, I suppose, when I’m nervous. It’s like I want to dazzle everyone with my supreme command of the English language.”

“S’alright. I hear worse from him every day. All ‘aeroelasticity’ this and ‘bioastronautics’ that. Total head-in-the-clouds syndrome. Who’s your friend?”

Neil raises his eyebrows at Chris, as if to say _you do it._ He’s committed to not speaking for the rest of this event. No, he will simply watch and learn. Besides, Jimmy is Chris’s ‘friend’, not his.

“Right, er.” Chris seems no better at this than him. “Jimmy, that’s Danny, and that’s Dev. He’s an advertiser, and he’s a swot.”

Danny gives Dev’s hand a fond-yet-subtle squeeze. “Yeah. That’s all you are. A professional swot.”

“Oh, just like Chris is a professional curious person,” Neil blurts out, ending the world’s shortest vow of silence. But it’s worth it to see the look of amazement on Chris’s face; seems it was eons ago he called himself that. “And Jimmy…”

“Socialist, activist, part-time baker and full-time queen.” Let it never be said that Jimmy can’t give a good elevator pitch. “And even if you’re not the right Danny, that one woulda never made anything like this. That boy loved his meat. ‘Cept mine, sadly.”

Danny flashes a cheeky grin. “Always nice to meet another herbivore. What’re you carrying?”

“A fresh loaf of bread, straight from the bakery,” Jimmy says proudly, brandishing the loaf in question. Neil bites his lip and holds back a giggle, nearly losing it when he notices Chris doing the same.

Now it's time to figure out what to put in his pitta. After some deliberation, he decides to go strictly veggie. He spreads his pitta with a beautiful golden chutney (_hmm, Waitrose, nice_), then loads it up with the cauliflower mix. Top it all off with a few sprigs of coriander and he’s done. This is one of the nicest catered events he’s ever been to, and he almost feels as though he needs to provide monetary compensation or something. But then_—_wait. “And for dessert,” he proclaims, taking out his own contribution, “miniature scones with miniature chocolate chips.”

“Ah, Jimmy, even the dessert’s perfect for you, innit?” Chris chimes in, cracking up, and he gets a sharp elbow to the gut in return. “Fuck! Thanks a lot, now I can’t eat.”

“At least I’m not miniature where it matters, unlike some people.”

The D’s gasp. Meanwhile, Neil, feeling slightly more at ease, lets a cheeky remark slip. “Spoken like someone who’s never had him.”

“Thank you, Neil.” Chris tears open a ketchup packet with his teeth and squeezes it all over a piece of Jimmy’s bread. Then he reaches for the mashed potato. “Defending your man’s honour.”

Neil sighs, realising what Chris is in the process of creating. “Yes, I must. Even if he does look at a gorgeous buffet and decide to recreate the most offensive sarnie known to man. Would you believe this one’s favourite is chips and ketchup on white bread?”

“Oh, I taught him that.”

Everyone turns to look at Dev, the source of this shocking comment.

“What? _…_what?!”

It’s Danny who wears the biggest look of shock, albeit a very theatrical kind that’s clearly fake. “So that’s why you brought the ketchup! You’ve been cheating on me with Chris!”

“Oh, Daniel. I’m sorry it had to come out this way. It can’t have anything to do with the fact that you load up these little packets in your car every time we go out, and I wanted to do something useful with them for once. No, I’ve been bunking off and making clandestine chips ‘n’ ketchup sarnies with Chris, in the dead of the night.”

“Using my prized stash, too. I see how it is.” With an indignant toss of the head, Danny turns to Jimmy. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Have you got a special someone?”

“I dunno. I prefer to keep things casual. S’about the only thing I’ve got in common with her.” He jerks a thumb towards Chris, who winces slightly.

“Oh, d’you not get on?”

“Eh. We’re like sisters.” The wince turns into a visible flinch. “One moment we love each other, the next, ooh, watch out. She’s got some claws on her, does our Christine.”

“Jimmy,” Chris says, a long-suffering tone creeping into his voice. “I’m a bloke. I’m not your sister, I’m not _she_, I’m not Christine. I’m Chris. We’ve been over this.”

“Meow! Just look at those perfectly manicured talons!”

Neil does. Specifically, he sees how they’re curling up in the blanket, so tight they could pierce the paisley. A few of Neil’s nerves return from their summer sojourn. If Jimmy continues to act like this, their perfectly planned picnic could turn into a disaster: two stubborn bulls locking horns while the others duck and hide. _Is it polite to tell a man I’ve just met to shut up?_ he wonders, gazing at the bulls. _I mean, Chris has told him, and it’s done nothing._

But thankfully, there’s no need_—_Danny to the rescue. “Ah-ah-ah, this is my picnic and my blanket and I’ll not have any fighting on it. Some fellas don’t like the whole act-like-we’re-girls thing, and that’s perfectly understandable. Now. Has everyone got their wraps made? Or_…_sandwiches?”

General mutters of agreement all around.

Danny kisses his hand and wiggles his fingers to the sky. “Bon appetit, boys!”

_Ah, thank God, now we can eat._

In two minutes, Neil’s wrap is gone. He really should have spent more time on it, it was very good, but he couldn’t stop himself. Nor can he explain why he ate it so fast. Maybe he was hoping it’d knock out the weird air of foreboding in his gut_—_a foreboding that implicated him more than Chris. And it does knock out some of the tension, for a while. But not all. Not even most. Thinking _okay, now I’m full, now I’ll be calm again_ is good as a temporary placebo, but it can’t pacify him forever. Eventually, the feeling comes crawling back, strange and spiky, and grows.

It begins when the boys start swapping when-did-you-know stories. Neil listens, clocks the ages and measures himself up against them. Not a single one is even close to his. _I knew when I was twelve. Oh, me, I was nine, phwoar, Robinson Crusoe. Well I knew when I was five and me mum couldn’t get me out of me sister’s dress._ Even Chris coughs up a very reasonable _fourteen_ when he’s prodded for an answer. Neil, meanwhile, remains distinctly mum. He figures the D’s know it’s his first time dating a bloke and Jimmy doesn’t need to know. It would sound a bit pathetic, wouldn’t it? _Er, I realised when I was well past the age that anyone in their right mind would figure this out. No, don’t make me repeat the figure, you’ll all laugh. Fine. Twenty-seven. Oh, there we go. Laugh it up. Ridiculous, I know. Oh, how’d I find out? Turn a bit to your left._

And there are other things, too. Films he’s never watched. Books he’s never read. Conversations he’s never had. Essentially, lives he’s never lived. He’s never been roughed up in the street, nor taunted for his sexuality, aside from a few shouts of ‘poofter’ that practically every kid on the schoolyard got if he wasn't a perfectly masculine specimen. As the day goes on, being here feels more and more like showing up to a group job interview with no credentials whatsoever, amidst a load of qualified professionals who’ve been at this for years.

“_…_and I hate those blokes who come to the clubs, _our_ clubs, and like, all they wanna do is have a look. Look, but don’t touch.” Seems that Danny’s on a bit of a rant about this very subject. “I mean, obviously they lied to get in. I’ve seen some guys at Heaven rope the poor sod next to them into being their boyfriend, just so they can make it past the bouncers!” Everyone joins in the laughter then, including Chris. Neil stares at him, hard and cold, wondering if he remembers how they got into Heaven the first time. “And you can just tell, ‘coz they come in, all deer-in-the-headlights, and then get put out when you try and flirt with them. Like, excuse me for being a gay man at a gay club. Excuse me for actually liking men. Some of us are trying to get laid here.”

Context should be everything. As a journalist, Neil knows that better than anyone. But his brain is insistently chopping the words that surround Danny’s statement and turning them into an attack on himself. _Our clubs. Rope the poor sod next to them. Deer-in-the-headlights. Actually liking men._ Neil’s only ever liked one man: Chris. What if that’s not enough? What if he’s infringed on territory that’s not his? What if he’s one of those blokes that Danny hates so much?

And, since Danny brought it up, he thinks about Heaven. This only muddles the waters further. He did feel gay, or at least bisexual, there. He felt as though he fit in. Knowing that the other guys were bent gave him a sense of community, rather than distance. But there, he wasn’t expected to know all this stuff, or identify a fellow poof by just a glance, or come up with a backstory more substantial than _Chris was sexy_. All he had to do was dance. And dancing is far simpler than having to stay quiet.

The sad thing is, they’re not telling him to stay quiet. He is. He’s the one telling himself _shut up, you can’t contribute to this conversation_, even when it’s not about being gay. Which it quite often isn’t. Various topics drift in and out, some very relevant to him, but he’s grown solemn and small. He just sits there, running his hand through Bianca’s cloud-soft fur, finding it easy to keep a vow of silence now. When Danny breaks out the promised champagne, he accepts his cup without a word and makes it last for the rest of the picnic. He keeps taking the tiniest little sips, letting the bubbles linger and dissolve in his mouth. The alcohol lifts the veil off his worries, and he experiences them purely and painfully. _You’re a fraud. You’re not really gay, that’s for people who’ve done this their whole lives. You’ve never marched in a pride parade or watched one. You don’t know why the Wizard of Oz is so important. You panic if you’re out anywhere past 1am. You’ve been sleeping with a man for four months. Four. Not even six. Do you think that counts? Pur-lease._

“Hey,” says Chris softly, nudging Neil with his knee. “Y’alright?”

A brief spike of fear shoots through Neil, which dips as he realises that the other three are nattering away, unlikely to notice. “Er_…_” _Lie._ “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“What about?”

“Eh. Don’t really fit in with your mates.” _See, when you do talk, you leave yourself vulnerable, open to questioning. Bad, bad move._

“Is it ‘coz of all the inside jokes? I can stop.”

Well, that’s not the main thing, but it hasn’t exactly helped. “That, and…” He shakes his head; the real reason is far too embarrassing to bring up. “Never mind. Just tired. Wanna go home.” _What are you, six? ‘Wanna go home’. Pathetic. Let him have his fun._

“What about your scones?”

“You can have ‘em. Just remember to bring back the container, okay?” He contorts his face into what he hopes is a smile, then gets up, swaying.

The smile does little to convince. “Are you_—_”

“I’ll be fine,” Neil says, aware of the bitterness in his voice. Insecurity and alcohol are never a good mix; inevitably, someone gets hurt. “You can stay. They’re your mates, after all.”

“No, don’t be like that_…_I didn’t know. I’ll feel guilty. Lemme come with you.” Under his breath, Chris adds, “and I’m a bit bored, anyway.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. I’ll make up an excuse. You don’t look well.”

“I’m not.”

“I figured. Normally you do all the talking.” While Neil’s wondering whether or not that was a compliment, Chris turns to the others. “Hey, guys? We’ve, er, booked some time in a practise space tonight, and it starts at five, so best be off. Sorry, I forgot to tell you. Here.” He cracks open the container. “You can have four each. I’m sure they’re brilliant.”

“Aww, all right,” says Dev, reaching in and grabbing one, two, three, four_…_half the box. “Four for me, four for Danny, four for Bianca.”

“Dogs can’t have chocolate,” Danny points out.

“He said we could all have four!”

“You and your sweet tooth. Jimmy?”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly, I ate like a pig. Well, maybe one.”

“If by ‘ate like a pig’ you mean ‘had half a wrap’. Go on.” Danny watches as Jimmy finds the smallest scone in the batch and plucks it out happily, then tips his chin at him. “You headin’ off too?”

“Happy to stay if you want me, happy to leave if you don’t.”

“Stay, then,” says Danny, clearly pleased. There’s a spark in his eye and an ever-so-subtle touch of the knee, barely visible to the naked eye, but Neil and Chris both notice. “Nice seein’ you lot again.”

“An’ thanksh fer th shcones!” Dev exclaims, with his mouth full. Curiously, he doesn’t appear remotely fazed by his boyfriend’s flirting. He swallows and speaks more clearly, hand already poised on his next scone. “Sorry. Good luck with your music.”

“Thanks,” say Chris and Neil, in unison, triggering an _aww_ from the trio. Neil hates how that makes him feel_—_soft and warm, a warmth that conceals a sickly guilt. It would be so much easier to dislike them if they were genuinely loathsome, but they’re not. They’re three lovely lads who happen to be gay, who wear their gayness as easy as a silk scarf. Same with Chris, really. Although he’s never talked about any of this to Neil, even he could catch all the references and hold up his end of the conversation just fine. Every last one of them was a better poof than Neil, and the realisation is turning his stomach into a seething ball of resentment. _I wanna go home_, whines the inner child, again.

Chris picks up the container and waves, and Neil attempts to do the same, though he’s certain he looks fake. “See you, lads. Have fun, Jimmy.”

_Huh. I wonder if._

“Nice meeting everybody,” Neil adds, then remembers that’s not quite right. “Erm, again for you two, and the first time for you, Jimmy.”

_Please, Chris, say something smooth. Save me._ But he doesn’t, so they part ways on that awkward, uncomfortable note and head for the tube.

At first, the ride home is quiet and tense, but eventually Neil’s curiosity gets the better of him. “So are Danny and Dev…”

“What?”

“Erm, swingers?”

Chris lets out a hearty guffaw. “Oh my God. Swingers. That's so hetero. Yes, they’re open.”

_Hetero. That’s right, Chris, rub it in._ Neil tries to ignore it, but his thoughts are proceeding on a slow march towards a depressing conclusion, and Chris’s comment was a red-hot poker forcing them forward. “But are they gonna…” He trails off, sighing. No point finishing that sentence, he’s already humiliated himself enough.

“Let’s just say he pro’lly won’t be home for supper. Hey, wanna come back to my place?”

“Erm.” On any other night he’d love to, but tonight, he’s due for a little soul-searching. That is, if he can work up the nerve to open his journal_—_he may be too embarrassed to do so. Either way, Chris doesn’t want to be around him when he’s like this. _A miserable saddo having a jolly old mope about his sexuality, oh yeah, that’s everyone’s idea of a brilliant soiree._ “I think I need to be alone tonight. Sorry.”

“Alright,” Chris says, far more kindly than Neil deserves. “But you will tell me what’s got you down, eh? Doesn’t need to be now. But sometime.”

“Yeah,” Neil lies. He doubts he’ll ever be capable.

There’s plenty of noise on the tube_—_jeering boys, screeching stops, please-mind-the-gaps_—_and yet all he can hear is a cold and numbing silence. It’s the silence of not being able to speak to Chris, and feeling subtly, but profoundly distanced from him. It’s also the silence of mild inebriation, which can turn him sullen and untalkative at times. He regrets having that drink. One cup of champagne was just enough to trigger the occasional headaches he sometimes gets, but not enough to get him properly drunk. It simply dredged up feelings that he didn’t want to confront.

He can’t win, really. With Chris by his side, he is desperately longing for solitude and irritated by his mere presence, giving curt, one-word responses to his queries. However, when Chris leaves to catch his connection home, Neil feels a sudden pang of loneliness. To further drive the point home, nobody claims Chris’s seat. The gap where he has left cannot be filled.

When Neil gets back, he locks his front door, drops the container on the kitchen table, and stops. A great melancholy grips him, holding him tight in its fist, and refuses to let go as he heads for his bedroom. He sits on the bed, stricken. An essential part of him has been torn away, and now he’s at the end of the march: back where he started. Four months of progress, undone in the span of four hours. _Being gay is about so much more than who you fancy,_ he thinks. _And what if I’m not? What if I’ve claimed an identity that’s not mine to claim?_

He eyes his journal for a couple seconds, then turns away. Writing out his feelings would be an exercise in masochism, and he’s had more than enough of that today. Instead, he lies back, sad and limp as a wrinkled dress shirt, the questions pressing him into the mattress with the searing, flattening pain of a giant iron.

_What do I need to give up now? My hobbies? My career? Chris?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few comments as a...postface. Huh, apparently that's a word.
> 
>   1. "Jimmy" is Jimmy Somerville, of the fab synthpop group Bronski Beat, and I love him. He may have been flatmates with Chris, so I decided to throw him into this fic. He and Chris did, in fact, have wildly different views when it came to the politicism of sexuality, and I don't want anyone to think that I'm favouring one or the other. They're both equally valid, and one of the points of this fic is to show that there are infinite ways of being gay, and everyone has a different relationship to their identity.
>   2. On a related note, what Neil's saying to himself at the end here isn't what I think at all. It's easy to fall into a trap where you think that you need to have a certain set of life experiences, tastes, and sensibilities to be "properly" gay. But I don't think that's true, and I want to explore that mindset in the final chapter. To me, it really is just about who you fancy.
>   3. Eesh, the angst, the angst. Don't worry, the next chapter will be FULL OF JOY 🎈🎈🎈


	13. Inspiration: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, resolution can come from the strangest places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I really wanted to make this last chapter special, and it ended up being twice as long as usual, so there's a part 1 and a part 2. First part today, second tomorrow. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Shoutout to my friend Jay for providing such a brilliant beta. Your support is invaluable. 💚💜💚💜💚💜

A full week passes before he can reach any semblance of normal again. And that is a semblance, mind you. It’s not normal, and it’s certainly not happy. Now, the beast of sadness that seized him has loosened its grasp with each day—enough for Neil to move around, smile, even laugh. But he’s still felt its pinch every once in a while. When looking at the disco records he’s bought. When flipping through his song-journal and examining the lines he’s written. When chatting with the coworkers he’s come out to. When chatting with Chris.

Or rather, very pointedly not chatting with him. The office phone, normally such a benign object, has been imbued with a malevolent energy—_could it be him?_ Its shrill, mechanised ring makes the beast’s claws tighten and dig, one round Neil’s stomach and another round his throat, and it’s only when he hears the person on the other line that he remembers to breathe. Except if it’s Chris, that is. Then ‘breathe’ is the last word in his vocabulary.

Chris has rung twice: on Tuesday, when Neil escaped in ten seconds by inventing some pitiful, paper-thin excuse about a meeting he had to get to, and on Friday, when he fared better. That day, he managed to do the following:

  * pick up
  * stay on the line
  * exchange social niceties
  * chat for a minute (that was all he could manage)
  * claim that work had been piling up (it hadn’t)
  * promise to phone back soon (a terrible move), and
  * hang up.

This was hardly a success, though, as it unsettled him greatly. He spent the rest of the day with a frown pasted to his face, avoiding everyone’s curious eyes.

Chris deserves better. He doesn’t know about the beast. Why would he? Neil’s never told him, and they’ve spoken for a grand total of two minutes this week. And not a single second of that gave a hint at the storm going on inside him. What would there be to tell? His thoughts are a miserable, unfocused jumble, a Gordian knot without a knife. He fears putting them down in writing, but he’s got no one to talk to, either. It’s such a strange problem: _I thought I was gay, but actually, maybe I’m not?_ He can just picture the dead silence on the other end of the line, followed by, at best, a “Sorry, I can’t help you” and a click.

And what’s the use? He’s back to normal. Mostly. This is the normalest he’s felt since Sunday, anyway. “Since Sunday” has been a dividing line in his mind, like B.C. and A.D. Before and after the picnic. Before and after the vital loss of self. He may be a blank slate of a human being, but it doesn’t hurt as much as it did then, as he’s had a couple days to come to grips with it. This weekend has been spent alone, talking only to those unknown to him. Everywhere he’s gone, he’s been an anonymous patron, an experience that is empowering in its own strange way. He’s not needed to prove anything to anyone. No one knew him. All they’ve seen is a mild-mannered, bespectacled nerd, not a bundle of neuroses.

At six PM on Sunday, though, he’s at his desk, having done everything he can possibly think of. Supper’s been made. Teeth, brushed. Flat, sparkling. Telly, dull; reading, blah; writing, absolutely not. He could go out, but why would he? He’s got work the next day, and besides, all of his favourite haunts are off-limits now. But it is far too early to go to sleep; he’ll wake at the crack of dawn and be forced to find some other way to occupy his time.

Still, the bed is not a bad place to be. After stripping for the night, he tucks himself in, letting his eyes close and his breathing go regular. Maybe he’ll fall asleep, which would be good for him; sleep has been hard-fought and spotty as of late, and a head-start can’t hurt. But his soul is wide awake, wired from the thoughts he’s attempted to repress, and they surge forward with a vengeful fury. Suddenly, he’s struck by his idiocy. If he had written about his thoughts after the picnic, they could have been butterflies pinned to a page; now, they’re angry, buzzing wasps, out for blood.

And it’s an unfair fight, too. It’s hundreds of stinging insects against one weak and vulnerable man. It’s self-doubt upon self-doubt, fear upon fear, regret upon regret. As he twists and squirms, never able to get comfortable, he knows he won’t fall asleep tonight. He shouldn’t have even tried. Not at this hour, and not in this dreadful emotional state.

In a strange way, though, letting himself feel the pain of his thoughts—after having suppressed them for so long—is almost comforting. At least it’s an emotion, and those have been in short supply recently. The pain is acute, not prolonged like it was before, and it washes over him with something close to relief. Oh, it hurts. A lot. But it hurts in a way that he feels he can handle, and after one thought really stings him, he leaps out of bed and finds his journal. Maybe he _can_ write about this.

He brings it to his desk, sits down, and stares at the blank page. It stares back at him. It is a far more formidable foe than he thought, taunting him with its emptiness and becoming one with the beast. _Huh. Sounds an awful lot like you, doesn’t it._ Neil can win this fight—he’s got bucketloads of emptiness inside him. And yet, closing the journal doesn’t feel like winning. It feels like giving up. He sighs and returns to his bed, lying on his side and wrapping himself round his warm and familiar duvet like a lover.

Like a lover. That last painful thought was _he’d be better off without you_, and Neil can’t get it out of his head. (No points for guessing who _he_ is.) It’s a simple matter of logic: Chris would be happier with a boyfriend who’s properly gay, not someone who doesn’t know who or what he is. Or single, too—Neil didn’t miss the _prefer to keep things casual_ comment. At any rate, Chris is so young, and he’s got his whole life ahead of him. Best to finish with him now, before he gets his head done in.

_Yes_, says that terrible voice inside him, chilling him to the core. A sickening dread fills his stomach. _Now. Do it now._

The beast lets go just long enough for Neil to stagger out of bed again, drift with heavy soles to the kitchen, lay his hand on the receiver, and dial.

“Hello?”

“C-Chris?” _Look at you, stuttering on the first word out of your mouth._

“No, this is Jimmy. Who am I speaking with?”

The dread intensifies. This would have been so much easier if Chris picked up; he could have said his piece and ended it there. Instead, he’s got to play buddies with Jimmy, a proper poof if ever there was one. “Erm, who do you think?”

“I was only tryin’ to be polite,” Jimmy scoffs. “I know it’s you, Neil.”

“Right. Prince Charming himself,” Neil says, voice tight with forced levity. A painful sigh seeps out and he bites his lip. _Stay civil._ “I assume Chris is out?”

“He was never in, doll.”

_That’s a joke_, Neil tells himself. _That’s a joke that’s a joke that’s not a comment on him being a better poof than you and—_

“Neil?”

He blinks. Tears fall.

“You alright?”

The word stands in gleaming capital letters in his head: _**N O.**_ But when he shapes it with his lips and finally forces it out, it’s small, spiky and thin, and it gives away far too much of what he’s currently feeling—which only compounds the problem. _Civilised conversations are for losers_, he thinks cynically, penning the column inside his head even as he’s watching it happen. _The next big thing is mental breakdowns in front of people you barely even know._

“Okay, breathe for me, luv. Can you do that?”

There is something oddly motherly about Jimmy’s tone, something that, in its sweet sincerity, undercuts Neil’s inner monologue and brings him back to reality. Jimmy demonstrates the breathing technique over the phone, and while Neil feels faintly ridiculous, he attempts to match him, breath for breath. This does in fact make a noticeable difference in his mood; if no happier, at least he’s calmer.

“Good. Now what’s the matter?”

“I…don’t know if I’m really gay. Like, if I can claim that word for me anymore. And if I can’t, it means I’ve made a farce of…well, my whole life, essentially.” _Whew._ As loath as he is to admit it, there’s no way he’d ever be able to put things so succinctly without Jimmy’s help. Now that he’s said the hardest words out loud, the rest is a breeze. “I was actually calling to finish with Chris. Get that off my plate. But then, what about my coworkers? Or my songs?”

“Whoa, Nelly. Back up, back up. Why d’you think you can’t call yourself gay?”

“Coz I only found out I liked men when I met Chris. That’s way too old, isn’t it? Plus, when I was at the picnic, I realised—I’ve never been through anything remotely comparable to what you lot have been through. Especially you, Jimmy. You’re, like, properly gay.”

Jimmy laughs. “Thank you. I don’t know if you can see, but I’m curtseying over the phone.”

Neil cracks his first genuine smile in a week.

“I’ll tell you something, luv. I volunteer with a radical gay helpline”—_of course he does_—“and a tonne of calls, seriously, a tonne, are from men older than you. I even got an old-age pensioner once, musta been eighty by the sounds of it, and he said to me, _You know, I never told anyone, but I think I like men._ Just like that. He went his whole life not telling a soul, and then he told me. At first I was gobsmacked—like, how? But he’d grown up in the era without all this stuff, he’d only just found out about us the day before. And he taught me something that day. It’s never too late to come out.”

Neil kicks his carefully attuned bullshit detector to see if it goes off. It doesn’t.

It’s never too late. If Jimmy is saying that—with the same fiery conviction that turned him into such a terror on the tube to Hampstead—then it must be true. If octogenarians can take their first tentative step out of the closet, he can, too. A layer of dread lifts up, shrivels, and disappears, to be replaced with a golden ray of sun. He had no idea how good it would feel to hear those words. How wonderful validation could be.

“Do you really think that?” Neil asks, wanting to hear it again.

“I do. Hundred percent. Look, I’ve been gay me whole life. Never even looked at a lass. But everyone’s got their own journey. And I think, the more of us, the better.”

“Us,” Neil repeats, dumbstruck.

“Yes, us. You love a man, don’t you?”

“I. Erm. Um.” _Love. Adore._ Words that scratch uncomfortably close to the surface of his true and vast feelings for Chris. Words that hold too much power to be spoken. And Jimmy’s just gone and named the most powerful one.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Well, you put me on the spot! I haven’t told him how I feel yet, I’m certainly not about to tell you. I mean, I don’t even know you, really…”

Jimmy cackles. “Oh, I get it. You thought I meant love, _like_, are you in love with him. No. I meant more politically. You’re seein’ Chris, which means you love a man, which means you know what it’s like, which means you’ll fight for us.”

“Yeah?” Another layer of dread lifts, incinerated by the word _fight_. Could he do that with his music? Fight for people like him?

“Of course! Doesn’t that inspire you? That’s what I live for. Knowing I’ve made a difference. Hey, now that you’re out, d’you wanna know about the Icebreakers?”

Politeness is Neil’s downfall. He agrees, and gradually finds out what Jimmy meant by _fight_. The next five minutes are spent listening to him ramble on and on about this collective, who are frankly far more radical than Neil could ever hope to be. In addition to fielding nightly calls from the lonely, isolated and vulnerable, they hold very earnest consciousness-raising events in their little bookshop, Gay’s the Word. And yes, it’s a worthy cause. He’d never argue otherwise. But the thought of devoting his precious evenings to sitting in some rinky-dink bookshop and listening to other people’s troubles—well, it holds no appeal whatsoever. Leave that to the actual experts. Besides, he just came out himself; he’s hardly the sort of person who should be dishing out advice to others. Knowing him, he’d scar some poor helpless soul for life.

And this _is_ a tangent from the original topic, isn’t it? Perhaps Jimmy’s already moved on from the identity crisis, but Neil hasn’t. In fact, a load of new worries have cropped up in his head. _Alright, so I can call myself gay, but only if I do all this? Is that what he’s implying? I hope not. What if I don’t want to? Maybe he’s not saying that. Maybe he’s just suggesting these things because he’s passionate about gay lib and he wants to see if he can get a new person on his side. Hmm. I wonder if Chris does any of this._

“…hey, Jimmy?”

“Yeah?”

“Erm, how do I put this. I don’t want to offend you.”

“Go on. You can’t.”

Neil highly doubts that to be true. “Is this…necessary? Do I have to do all this, or can I just live my life?”

There’s a sharp exhale at the other end of the line that makes Neil’s heart sink. “I mean, I hope you’ll consider it, and the world would be a better place if we all did, but…no, loads of queens don’t.”

“Does Chris?”

“Ha! Please. Too lazy.” Lazy? Jimmy must not know him very well. Chris is a solitary creature who spends his free time how he wants to. Autonomous is a better word. And as someone who’s prone to being roped into plans even when he knows he’d rather be alone, Neil admires him for it. But he’s certainly not lazy. When he sets his mind to a pursuit, especially songwriting, he’s got a better work ethic than Neil. This is the first truly objectionable thing Jimmy’s said all night, and it’s really got under Neil’s skin.

His fingers curl round the receiver, his teeth round his lip. “Chris is not lazy, and I’ll prove it. On our first proper date, he brought me flowers, took me shopping for new clothes, brought me to a pet shop as a surprise ‘coz he knew I liked dogs, then treated me to dinner.” The last one is a rather generous bending of the truth, but the point stands. “Did he ever tell you that?”

“Flowers?! You mean, picked off the side of the road?”

“No, from a proper florist, wrapped in cellophane with a little silver bow.” The image is still vivid in his mind, and even as he’s squeezing the phone in a terrifying grip, his inner schoolgirl is swooning.

“Christ. No one ever brought me flowers. Alright, maybe lazy isn’t the right word—more selfish, I guess.” (_That’s even worse_, Neil thinks.) “I keep trying to get him to come out, but he won’t. In both senses of the word. He’ll bring men home, but that’s all he does. He’s like…anti-political. He’d never fight for us.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve lived with him for a year. What’s your excuse?”

“Well, I’ve been writing gay disco songs with him for half. So there.” On reflection, it’s not really the trump card he hoped for—it sounds silly and trivial. _Gay disco songs._ They’re far more than mere novelties. But disco’s already a maligned genre, gay disco doubly so, and what if Jimmy’s more of the Tom Robinson type? “Er, they’ve got a bit of a rock edge. Like Soft Cell. Look, my point is, isn’t that a kind of fight, too? Writing art that speaks to our experience?”

“…yeah. I s’pose so. Good for you. Really.”

Neil stops, gives his bullshit detector another kick, and listens. No traces of sarcasm to be found. It seems that Jimmy is actually conceding his point. Gratified, he presses on: “And personally, I think there are loads of ways we can fight. We’re not all cut out for the sort of work you do, and we don’t need to be. We’ve all got our strengths. I probably wouldn’t make a very good Icebreaker, but I am good at writing. And singing. And Chris is an absolute genius when it comes to hooks and synth lines. We’ve come up with some brilliant stuff, if I do say so myself, and I firmly believe that if our music takes off—even if it’s just at Heaven—it’ll make a whole lot of people feel less alone.”

“You’re right,” Jimmy says slowly. “I’ve always thought we needed to make more art for us. I may have a go at the piano at Gay’s the Word, actually.”

“There’s a piano?”

“Yeah, at the back. Free for everyone to use, as long as you’re not crap.”

“Hmm. I think you’ve got your ace in the hole for Chris. Next time, say something like ‘Hey, Chris, wanna come with me to Gay’s the Word? You don’t need to join our meeting, but they just bought a piano and they’re letting anyone give it a go.’ Next thing you know, he’ll be filling your bookshop with rich, ebullient sound, channeling the spirit of Tchaikovsky.”

“God, you really are a wordsmith!” Jimmy exclaims, and Neil smiles, loosening the phone from its death-grip. “Alright, I’ll give that a shot. Anything else?”

They’ve spanned a good number of topics over the last half-hour, and Neil is feeling exhausted. Several more layers of loathing have disintegrated, leaving him calm, serene, and grateful. “No, that’s all. Thank you so, so much. Oh, one thing. Could you let him know that I rang, and that I’d love to see him?”

“Course, he’ll be thrilled. And for God’s sake don’t finish with him, as I’ll be left to pick up the pieces.”

“What pieces? He’d hardly come apart if I did. He’s not a Faberge egg.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Take care, Neil.”

“Thanks, Jimmy. Have a good night.”

Blinking in amazement, he sets the phone down on the cradle.

Who would have ever guessed that a call with Jimmy could save his relationship? Or…everything? If Jimmy hadn’t picked up, and Chris did, then what would have—no. It’s too awful to contemplate. No, he’d rather reflect on what did happen: a lovely, enlightening conversation with someone who turned out to be quite the therapist. Better still, he’d been reminded of the power of his own brain, which had felt so feeble before. He’d been able to hold a solid debate, which meant he was sharp as ever. They had butted heads at times, but that was good; hearing something he disagreed with, he could then zero in on why, turning that subtle internal belief into a fully fleshed opinion. He almost wants to call Jimmy back and thank him for being so wrong.

_Not wrong_, he reminds himself, chastising his judgmental side. _Just different._

Smiling, he places his hand on his heart, feeling its steady, even thump. Many of his worries have been crushed outright, and the rest have lost their sting. He’s thinking a lot clearer. He’d like to hash out some of this stuff with Chris—see what he thinks about having to be political, and all that. Might be an interesting debate.

He misses Chris. Even more so now that he’s just finished painting an intricate portrait of him with words. It hangs on the wall of his mind, striking and strong, in a heart-shaped frame. Underneath the angst of this week laid a deep longing for Chris, and he can now see that he was mourning the end of their relationship before they’d even got there. And not just the romantic part, either—every single element. Because so much of it was intertwined with the discovery of his sexuality, if it turned out that wasn’t true, it would mean he’d need to stop seeing Chris altogether. Sever all ties: romance, friendship, musical partnership. No more gay, no more Chris.

It doesn’t make much sense, when he thinks about it now. But then, he couldn’t have known that at the time. Brains are such irrational things, and yet human beings have to live inside them. Sometimes they can be prisons, and sometimes it takes another jailbird to find the secret trap door, the one that should have been obvious all along.

He checks his watch. Eight o’clock. Perfect. Not his bedtime yet, so he’s got plenty of time to do this.

Heading back to his bedroom, he sits at his desk, finds a fresh black pen, and begins to write.

* * *

The next week unfolds quite peacefully, vis-a-vis the Chris situation—lunchtime chats are resumed, weekend plans are made—but when Neil hears the insistent ring of the doorbell on Friday night, a slight nervousness sets in. Why? Maybe because the plans are ill-defined, while he’d prefer to have an idea of what they’ll actually be doing all weekend. Or maybe because, as nice as it’s been to chat with Chris, there’s still a bit of residual tension between them. Or who knows, at this point. He’s given up trying to deduce the mental state behind his feelings. Whatever it is, it’ll come out sooner or later.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Neil calls out, as the _ding-dong, ding-dong_ echoes through his flat. He extricates himself from his favourite antique chair, the one so deep it can swallow a person whole, and heads for the door. “For God’s sake, I’m coming!”

When he opens the door, Chris waits a beat, then delivers the punchline: “…said the actress to the bishop.”

Neil’s mouth twitches. “That’s not funny.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

“I’m not!” He tries to rearrange his face into a serious expression, but the corners of his mouth keep going up. Eventually, after sealing his lips shut, an extremely undignified laugh bursts forth—something between a witch’s cackle and a dying seal. It’s not even a very funny joke, but Chris’s delivery and the fact that he’s Chris are turning him into a giggly, glowing mess. “Hoo boy,” he says, once he’s done embarrassing himself. “I missed you.”

“Yeah,” Chris says, his smile not quite reaching his sad and wistful eyes. “Me too.”

The look on his face makes Neil want to pull him into a hug, so he does, squeezing him tight and recommitting his body to memory. He’s heard of soul-kissing, but this may be the first time he’s experienced soul-hugging: a snug embrace that transfers the depth of one man’s feelings to the other. No man has ever hugged him like Chris, with all of his body, not just his arms and the barest brush of his torso. It makes him feel safe, solid and right. Like he exists.

When they finally make their way from the door-frame to the sofa, Chris sets his BOY cap on the coffee table, scooches in close, and lays his head on Neil’s chest, face-first. The vulnerability of this gesture surprises Neil; it’s the frankest that Chris has ever been about his feelings. And for him! To this day, he finds it hard to believe that anyone could like him as much as Chris seems to. He’s been finding every excuse not to believe it, chief among them the old chestnut _He doesn’t like me, he just likes what he thinks I am and how I make him feel. He’d never like the real me._ Also, Neil is well aware that they’re in what relationship experts call “the honeymoon period”; blissful and bright, on their best behaviour, heedless (or outright ignorant) of the conflicts that will soon settle in. This may have been their first one, and a sign that they really weren’t as compatible as they seemed.

“You cuddlebug,” Neil chides him, trying to sound normal, though the layers of dread are beginning to build. “What’s got into you?”

“I dunno, I’m just…glad you still wanna talk to me. I thought, maybe it’s me he’s pissed off at, but I couldn’t figure out what I’d done, or said. But I figured it must be bad, if—”

The guilt is sudden and intractable. “Chris, stop. You did _nothing_.”

“Oh.” Chris turns, so now the back of his head is brushing Neil’s chest. Good news: his words are clearer. Bad news: so is his miserable, kicked-puppy expression. “Then what was it?”

“I…” Neil gulps. “Oh God, it’s so stupid. It’s got nothing to do with you, it’s entirely me.”

“Can’t be that stupid.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, and then you can decide.” Neil takes a deep breath, letting it go in a waft of air over Chris’s head. He starts to stroke it gently. “It was after the picnic. No—during. When Danny said that thing about the club, what was it, being a proper gay man or something like that. No. The thing about our clubs, and lying to get a straight guy in, and you all laughed, and I thought _oh God, we did that our first time, didn’t we_. Then I started thinking, _well, what if I’m not really gay, what if I’m one of those guys he hates_. I mean, you all came out at a very reasonable age, fourteen or whatever, and meanwhile I’m sat here like a knob thinking _I’m practically thirty and I only just realised a few months ago_. And then—”

Chris rears up and pierces him with a look that’s shockingly serious. “Okay, one, you’re not ‘practically thirty’,” he says, doing the inverted commas with his fingers—he’s picked up that habit from Neil. “You’re twenty-seven.”

“Turning twenty-eight in a few weeks.”

“Still not thirty. And two, even if you were, who cares?”

“I do! Because if I’m going to be gay I’m going to do it bloody right! And if I’m not…I don’t know what I am.”

Some statements gain profundity when said out loud. Others lose it. And this is undoubtedly one of the latter. Once he’s finished, his cheeks are burning and he’s turning the words over in his head, again and again. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Being a gay man isn’t like being a poet or pianist, it’s not a skill he can hone, and the second thing is even worse. _I don’t know who I am._ At the dawn of his thirties, he really should know by now.

He shifts uncomfortably. Tangled up with Chris, he can hardly retreat into himself, so he merely clutches him closer. He may have enjoyed the way Chris made him feel—present, embodied, alive—but right now, he’d give anything to go back to being a cipher.

“Forget I said that,” Neil declares, brushing the top of Chris’s head as though sweeping the topic off the table. “See, I told you it was stupid.”

“It’s not. I get it. I think. But that still doesn’t answer my question.”

“What?”

“What made you not wanna talk to me?”

“I was getting to that.” He clears his throat. These waters he’s eyeing will be icy cold, and there’s no way to make the plunge any softer. Deep breath. “Let’s set the scene: here are the six of us, at the picnic. I’m listening to you all talk, and meanwhile my brain is going a mile a minute down Worry Lane. See if you can follow along. Point A: I’m not like any of you, I’ve never seen _The Wizard of Oz_ and I hate staying up past my bedtime and I’m dreadfully boring and largely apolitical and I can’t tell who’s gay or not just by looking at them and I came out super late and only because you were more attractive than any girl I’d ever seen. Point B: Oh God, that must mean I’m not really gay. Point C: But I’ve spent six months thinking I am, what does that mean for the life I’ve built? Point D: Oh look, Danny just said he’d never date a man who wasn’t properly gay. Point E: I’m not properly gay. Point F: Ergo, I shouldn’t keep leading you on, I should finish with you and go back to being straight, so you can date a properly gay bloke and be happy. _Point final._”

“…I was more attractive than any of your girlfriends?!”

“Of course you’d get hung up on that,” Neil says, rolling his eyes, although he’s pleased that Chris’s reaction isn’t a stunned silence.

“Only ‘coz I don’t believe you. But I’ll take the compliment.” With the aid of Neil’s shoulders, Chris hitches himself up and plants a kiss that feels undeserved. He twists away again and leans in, but now their heads are level. “Not everybody wants what Danny wants, you know.”

“No?”

“No. I don’t care. I like men, you like men. I like you, you like me. What’s the big deal?”

_Beep-boop. Does not compute._ “It can’t be that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” He folds his arms with Chris inside them, feeling ridiculous. Petulant. Juvenile. Only children answer questions with the word “because”, and yet he’s chosen it as his prime conversational tactic. The last time he tried was in primary school, age seven, when he’d written it on his English test; it did not get a checkmark.

“Well, doesn’t _gay_ just means you prefer your own sex? Or that you’re happy. If you like the word, go for it. If you don’t, don’t. No skin off my nose.”

That makes an infuriating, and quite frankly offensive, amount of sense. It’s what he thought in the first place before being swept up in a current of radical rhetoric, the traces of which still cling to his brain and refuse to let go. “But doesn’t it imply a certain level of moral responsibility? I mean, Jimmy said we should all be marching in the street and not sit on our arses being lazy.” Neil’s exaggerating—Jimmy said nothing of the sort—but he’s also giving Chris a clear point to argue against, so a bit of embellishing won’t go amiss.

“Wait, when were you and Jimmy—never mind. Yeah. He says a lot of things.”

It’s nice to hear that small note of dissent in Chris’s voice, but Neil wants a whole song. Maybe even an album. “What do you think?”

Chris attempts a shrug. There’s only so much one can do within a cuddle. “I mean, I get it, I just don’t agree. I hate the idea that we all have to be a certain way or we’re not ‘doing it right’. There’s no such thing. None.”

“Really? But—”

“Look, Neil, I know a few gay blokes who are even more ‘boring’ than you. They work 9-5 jobs, come home to their equally boring boyfriends and eat beans on toast and watch Corrie Street before going to bed at eight. Hell, one of ‘em even voted in Thatcher. Yet they’d never call themselves anything but gay. On the other hand, I’ve met blokes who are more left than Jimmy, and everything in between. It’s a spectrum. Same with sexuality. You could be all the way bent, or half bent, or mostly bent but not completely. And that can change.”

“Can it?”

“Well, yeah. Look at you.”

The lack of humour or accusation in Chris’s voice is striking. A statement like that could have easily been delivered in a mocking way, making fun of him for his experience. But instead it’s been spoken with a soft, matter-of-fact kindness that heals Neil from the inside out. Chris’s honesty is wonderful, and his open-mindedness remarkable for someone his age. With one simple rhetorical trick, he’s managed to turn Neil’s journey from weird to normal and weave him into the tapestry of humanity. It is so, so good to hear these words.

“I really lucked out with you, you know,” Neil says, kissing the top of Chris’s forehead. “Brains and beauty. The complete package.”

“Mmm, both are up for debate. Hey—why were you talking with Jimmy in the first place? I know I said never mind, but never mind my never mind, I’m curious.”

“Ah, funny story. He just happened to pick up. I was calling to finish with you, and he talked me out of it.”

Twisting his head to gawk at Neil, Chris resembles a shocked owl. “I’m sorry, what?”

Perhaps this isn’t such a funny story. “Oh yes. I was convinced—con-_vinced_—you wouldn’t want to date me anymore if you knew I was a fraud.”

“A fraud. After all I’ve just said.”

“Well, I didn’t know that at the time!”

“A _fraud_.”

“Yes, a fraud. A phony, a fake, a fictionalist.”

“Oh, is this the game? Words that start with F? Great. A fantastic fuck.”

“Chris, please try to be serious—”

“I am. You think I’d lie about something like that? I’ve never been laid so good.”

“While that may be flattering, it is not appropriate or relevant,” Neil says, which may be the most stuffy, starched-collar sentence that’s ever left his mouth. “You’re not even engaging with the meat of what I’m saying. At least Jimmy could keep a straight face.”

Chris pauses. “Engaging with the meat, eh. Alright. Unhand me, good sir.”

That must mean _let go_, but he’s reluctant to do so. Throughout this, Chris has been his own personal security blanket—something soft he can hold to his chest, infused with a great amount of affection and comfort and just the right smell. He doesn’t want to give that up, and besides, he’s got no idea what Chris’s plan is—

—well, that’s quite the intense look.

“A fraud.” A hand is placed on his chest. That basic touch is so strong that it rockets through his core, and he winds up feeling it mostly in his back. He watches as the hand descends, catching at the hem of his t-shirt, shaking free and proceeding on his path. The eyes descend too: the watcher is becoming the watched. And Chris is no longer Chris, but that sexy stranger at the synth shop who piqued Neil’s curiosity so long ago. He’s transformed, and now…what was it…Henry Hipster is back. This is the man who’s got his eyes and hands on Neil. On his stomach, on his belt, and then on his hard-on.

Here’s the thing. Whenever he’s spooning with Chris, that happens. It’s practically Pavlovian: if they’re cuddling on the couch and he’s got his arms around Chris, he’ll get at least a little turned on. Very rarely has Chris ever noticed, or made mention of it. But his current expression—intense, knowing, wise beyond his years—seems to suggest that he’s clocked every single time this has ever occurred.

He strokes it with a slowly swirling thumb. “A fraud,” he repeats, as though it’s unfathomable. “I hope you don’t think that anymore.”

_Oh._

Neil would like to say “no, not at all,” but he owes Chris the truth. “I…I still kind of do.”

“Well.” Chris gives him a more intentional grope, sparking an _oh_. “Unless this is a cucumber, or a courgette or a kielbasa or whatever, you’re not a fraud. And I know you’re not in the business of shoving phallic foods down your pants. For one thing, it’s _far_ too ‘70s.”

“I’m…sorry?” This conversation has taken a turn.

“You never heard? Apparently, guys used to stuff all sorts of things down there, give ‘emselves a nice basket—”

“Basket?”

“Meat and two veg. Kit and caboodle. Bolt and tackle. What you’ve got right now. Anyway, some poor bloke fainted on the dance-floor and was rushed to hospital. Turns out he had half a knockwurst in there, and it, like, suffocated his legs.”

“_Knackwurst,_” Neil says, ever a stickler for proper pronunciation, but he’s smiling. Chris has a phenomenal knack(wurst) for turning things around, getting him to see the lighter side, and in hindsight, that’s just what he needed. Not some elaborate gay baptism ceremony, nor a big Oscar-winning speech, but a simple moment of _hey, you’re OK, now let’s talk about dicks._ “Also, very nice word there.”

“Knock—er, knackwurst?”

“No, phallic.”

“Oh, I didn’t need to swot up for that one!”

And Chris lets out his glorious, life-affirming cackle, swinging Neil firmly to the side of all is right with the world. He joins in the laughter, and Chris flashes him a relieved smile, giving him a kiss and a wonderful, mouthed “pretentious git,” which he supposes is for the correction but could just as easily be a comment on his entire existence.

Chris’s hand is still on Neil’s—basket, was it? He likes that. Few of his lovers have managed to satisfy his need for tactile affection, and certainly none so well. It comes down to the way Chris has turned touch into a spectrum, and the way their sexual energy can ebb and flow accordingly. Like here: Chris is gently, absently stroking him through his jeans, and Neil’s wrapped an arm round him, twining fingers in his newly shorn hair. They may get each other off, they may not. They’ve got all night. And Neil wonders why he ever worried about him. Why he was so ready to give this up.

“Tell me,” Chris says lazily, his subsequent words swallowed by a yawn, “this ‘properly gay bloke’ you wanted me to date, would he know half the shit you do? Or cook me singin’ hinnies? Or have a fab Roland synthesiser in his room?”

_Synthesiser._ Hmm. Suddenly an image flashes in Neil’s mind. A little trinket slipped into a cavernous coat pocket and…never given. In hindsight, there were plenty of opportunities, but it never seemed like the right time. And eventually, as the weather warmed up, there was no need for his peacoat anymore, so eventually, he just forgot. Bit embarrassing, really.

“Hold that thought,” Neil says, slipping out of their perfectly constructed cuddle and dashing for the closet, where his winter coats are gathering dust. Wool. Wool. Windbreaker. Wool. Leather (!). Wool. A man can never have too many black peacoats, until he’s searching for the one that’s got his lover’s charm. He’s diving into all the pockets, _thinking I hope I didn’t move them_, and then—bingo. _Two_ tiny plastic packets and _two_ twin pins.

“Neeeeeeil,” Chris whines. In Neil’s peripheral is a fully grown man on a sofa, flat on his back, with his limbs in the air like a dog playing dead. “I’m boooooored.”

Neil is too busy thumbing the pins in awe. How could he have had so much confidence in their budding relationship to have bought two?

“Alright, I’m getting up. I’m hungry.”

“No! Stay. I’ll be right there. Just—give me a couple seconds.” One…two. He taps the pins for each second given, then scurries back. “I’ve got something for you,” he says, with clenched fists.

“Ooh! What is it?”

He settles down opposite Chris, with the sort of excitement that can only be derived from a surprise gift. Never getting, only giving. In his experience, most surprises have been pitiable things; the only one he’s ever liked was…Bianca. If he can spark half the elation he felt when holding her paw for the first time, he’ll be thrilled. “Close your eyes. Hold out your hand.”

“Which one?”

“It doesn’t matter which—left.” Out comes the left, and Neil traces its deepest line for a moment, thinking _I can touch this hand whenever I want._ Then he places the pin inside. “Now open them.”

“My hands?”

“No, silly, your eyes. And tell me what you think.”

Chris stares at the pin for a good long while. Afterwards, he undoes the tiny flap and takes it out, holding it up to the light. Neil snuggles next to him, trying to see it through his eyes. It was a complete impulse buy, without a single thought spared beyond _oh, this is cute._ Now he can see the fantastic attention to detail: a long row of keys lining the bottom, a grey control panel in the top left and a label of the “model” at the top right. All outlined in shiny, eye-catching silver, which glints as Chris tilts it back and forth.

“Wow,” he says, then does something very odd: he hands back the pin.

“You don’t like it?” Neil asks, face and spirit falling in tandem.

“No, no, I do. I love it. But I feel kinda guilty.”

“Why?”

“You should have it. You’re the one who opened me up to the big wide world of music.”

“Did I?” he asks, feeling the cold metal in his palm. He smiles; when he gives it back, it’ll be all warm.

“Yeah. Never really had anyone I could chat with, especially the stuff I liked—you know, disco and all that. You didn’t roll your eyes or scoff at me. You listened.”

“Well, yeah, partly ‘coz it was polite and partly ‘coz I was tongue-tied by how good you looked.”

“Flatterer,” Chris says, turning a bit pink.

“Another F word,” Neil points out, leaning against Chris. He’s enjoying this trip down Memory Lane (a far better street than Worry Lane). “Continue.”

“Er, there was that, and then we started writing. I thought you wanted to go in a more rock-ish direction, but then you said you’d like to do disco music. With me.”

“…and?”

“I dunno. Never thought I’d get to make the music I loved. And I never woulda tried if you hadn’t come along.”

So much of Neil’s internal narrative has revolved around Chris, and the world he showed Neil, that to hear this is astonishing. From the moment they met, Chris has radiated a stellar, superhuman glow; if either of them were to become stars, it would have been him. There’s no universe in which Chris wouldn’t be a famous musician of some sort: a sought-after session player, a classical pianist, a jazz trombonist, a superstar producer, maybe even an MC. It just so happens that in this universe, he’s joined forces with a weird, arty post-punk fan to make dance records.

Now that weird, arty post-punk fan is currently sat on the sofa, reflecting. Chris never would have tried. He’s said so before, but Neil didn’t believe him. But it’s true. If Chris had merely turned one page in the great choose-your-own-adventure book that is life, they could have just missed each other. If they didn’t meet, if Chris didn’t follow him home, if Neil didn’t phone him up, if they didn’t get coffee and discuss their musical tastes…

…and honestly, if Chris didn’t kiss him…

“You did just as much for me, you know,” he says quietly. He takes Chris’s hand, pries open the fingers one by one, and presses the pin into his hand. “This is yours. Take it.”

“But—”

“And besides,” he says, dangling the other tiny pin in front of Chris’s eyes, “I’ve got one of my own.”

Chris stares at him, smiling in disbelief. “You got two! Alright, you win this time. Now, where shall I put this…Oh! I know!” He goes and grabs his enormous rucksack, sits down on the sofa in front of Neil, and places the pin in a prime position at the very top. Headfirst. Unmissable. Then stares at Neil like a proud puppy who just learned a new trick. (Which happens to be the second of two dog comparisons Neil’s made in his head. There is something rather canine about Chris, isn’t there. Canine, and occasionally serpentine.)

“Lovely,” Neil says, patting him on the head, then flips up the zip on the bag. “Say, why is this thing so big, anyway?”

“Said the actre—hey!”

As Neil pounces, the rucksack lands on the floor with a resounding _thunk_.


	14. Inspiration: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the help of Chris, Neil discovers how he truly feels.

The assembly of dinner proceeds the same way as always, with delectable smells wafting from the kitchen and an all-pervading glow of contentment. But there is one small difference: Chris is the chef. He insisted on cooking for Neil today, saying it was the least he could do after such a great gift. In exchange, Neil opened his abundantly stocked fridge and let him have free rein. Loads of fresh, in-season veg, homemade bread, and plenty of meat to engage with. And two whole hours to go wild.

“Have you got that book on—what was it—_Great British Cooking_?” Chris had called out from the kitchen.

“Sadly, no. Had to return it to the library.”

“Aww. Guess I’ll just have to look at the twenty or so other cookbooks in here.”

“Liar. I’ve only got ten.”

“…or maybe I’ve got another idea…” And he was mysteriously silent.

About an hour has passed since then, and Neil’s in his chair, reading _A Room in Chelsea Square_ and giggling to himself. All the while he’s been taking in the ambience. Grease sizzles, spatters and fills the air with its heady, fatty scent. Sometimes he can also catch the pleasingly earthy smell of peas in boiling water. He’s tempted to take a peek into the kitchen, but he knows that would spoil the surprise. So he burrows himself into the chair and the book into his nose, hoping to block out any more hints.

It is charming to hear Chris on his own, though, doing something without him. They’ve known each other for less than a year, which means that the days are still filled with exciting discoveries—or, as Neil likes to call them, Chriscoveries. Today’s Chriscovery: when he’s cooking, he talks to himself. A lot. Snatches of a one-sided conversation filter through and land in Neil’s ears, and soon he’s giggling less at his novel and more at the boy in his kitchen, wondering whether Neil would like this or that, ah hell, maybe both.

He can’t resist. Through the window that connects the two rooms, he hollers: “_Neil_ would like anything you’re cooking, m’dear.”

“Fuck. You could hear me?”

“This whole time.”

“Well, it’s a good job I’m almost done then.” He’s speaking at a pretty quick clip. _Nervous,_ Neil thinks. “Get your skinny arse in here, I’m about to fatten you up.”

Shoving the cheap paperback in the chair cushion, he gets his arse out of the chair and into the kitchen, where he sees what Chris has prepared.

Immediately, his brain starts ticking off the minor annoyances—force of habit. The kitchen is a total disaster. There are several stains on his precious stovetop, along with a pot of hot oil that he’s going to have to contend with later. His flat will smell of grease for at least the rest of the night, if not the whole weekend. The countertops are littered with empty pea-shells and potato peels. Worse, Chris has used the fresh haddock that Neil was planning on poaching, not frying. Even worse, Chris is in his favourite apron.

…and, after a moment, he can’t bring himself to care about a single one. He’s focused on the table, with its delicate tablecloth, its thoughtful place setting, and the meal laid beautifully on top. Chris has made fish and chips, with a side of fresh green peas, just for him.

“Sorry about all this,” Chris says, gesturing to the mess. “I’ll straighten up later.”

“Shh.” Infused by the benevolent spirit of gratitude, Neil walks up to Chris, unties his apron from the back and plants a kiss on his forehead. Chris’s skin is warm, warmer than usual—he’s blushing. And when he pulls the apron over his head, he can see it for himself. “We’ll straighten up later. Or perhaps we won’t. It wouldn’t do for us to become straight all of a sudden.”

A gentle smile appears alongside the hint of red. “You're right.” He turns to the table and begins to explain himself. “This, well, ‘coz you did the singin’ hinnies, I wanted to do something from where I’m from too, but the only thing I could think of was fish ‘n’ chips. I know you’re not a fan of fried food, but—”

“Oh no no no, Chris, you don’t understand. I pretend not to be. It’s better for my image. And for my waistline.”

“What waistline?” Grinning, Chris reaches over and tweaks his starched white button-down. “And what image?”

“Oh, shut up,” Neil says, filling his plate. As he helps himself to a generous spoonful of peas, he’s touched by all the effort Chris went through in preparing them, when Chris doesn’t even like them himself. But Neil does, and that’s why they’re a part of this meal. Another sign of his caring.

Both the fish and the chips are a tad greasy, so Neil discreetly dabs at them with the edge of his napkin. “So, what made you think fish and chips?”

“It’s the only thing that’s really, truly, properly Blackpool. Loads of restaurants make it. Pubs make it. Me mum made it growing up, an’ I helped her. Never made it meself though, so if it’s bad, there you go.”

“I’m sure it won’t be,” Neil reassures him. _And even if it is, I’m not letting on._

Luckily, owing to the freshness of all the ingredients, it’s a perfectly competent meal. By no means is it “bad”—underseasoned perhaps, but there’s plenty of malt vinegar and tartar sauce to remedy that. He’s pleased he won’t have to lie.

“It’s very good,” he says between bites. “Pass me the vinegar?”

“Oh, thank God.”

Neil smiles. “You were worried I wouldn’t like it, weren’t you.”

“Er, yeah.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. It’s weird. Usually I don’t care about that sorta thing, like, impressing people and such. But with you, I do.” He takes a big swig of water. “I guess this is what fancying someone is like. You go a bit doolally.”

There’s a pleasant wash of tingles on Neil’s face and a swelling curiosity in his heart. “You never fancied anyone before?”

“Well—kind of. Not really. Not like proper fancying. Thinking girls were pretty. Then thinking boys were pretty. But never the whole _ooh, I like him so much, I hope he likes me back._”

“And is that how you felt about me?”

Chris nods. Avoiding Neil’s gaze, he stretches across the table and claims the vinegar for himself. “That’s why I brought you to Heaven the first time. See if you were into men or not.”

“You could have just asked me, you know.”

“Ahahahaha. Sure, Mr. I’m Not Bent. How would that have gone?”

_Ouch._ Chris is cutting his fish and chips into long strips, then loading his fork with one of each and coating the Frankenbite with tartar sauce. Neil is so fascinated by this process that he nearly forgets what Chris has just said, although the stinging, guilty feeling is unforgettable. Right. _How would that have gone?_ “Point taken. I wasn’t very keen on admitting it.”

“No. I could tell. So I was thinking, let’s drag him to a gay club and see what happens.”

“But—okay.” There’s a part of Chris’s explanation that isn’t adding up, that’s bothered him ever since that night. “If you wanted to observe me, why did you abandon me for half the night? I thought you and Marc were escaping for a little dalliance.”

Chris lets out a giggle. “By dalliance, do you mean a shag?”

“Erm…”

“We’re mates, Neil. We went to talk. Nothing more.”

“About?”

“God, you keep needling me. I didn’t expect a Geordie inquisition.” With watchful, waiting eyes, he assembles another Frankenbite. “C’mon. What’s the line?”

“I don’t know…”

“I can’t believe it. I thought you were a man of culture. Are you seriously telling me you’ve never seen _Monty Python_?”

“Bits and pieces…” So this is what it feels like to be called a Philistine. Oops. Better not do that in the future.

“Well the line is, _no_-body expects the Spanish inquisition. Or Geordie, in your case.” This time, Chris puts both tartar sauce and malt vinegar on his bite, then swoops the culinary abomination into his mouth. Neil can’t help but grimace, a fact that delights a contrarian like Chris. “It’s good. You should try it.”

“Think I’ll pass, thanks. You were saying?”

“What was the question?”

“What’d you and Marc talk about?”

“Oh. Right. You. We talked about you. Marc wanted to know all about you.”

“He did?” The thought of a celebrity being inordinately fascinated with him is almost laughable. Isn’t it usually the reverse? The fan wants to know all the inner workings of his favourite star’s mind, and the star, while appreciative, couldn’t care less about him? Madness.

“Yeah. He could tell right away.”

That’s an ambiguous line, but three possibilities enter Neil’s mind. “What, that I was gay? That I fancied you? That you fancied me?”

“D. All of the above.”

“Cripes.”

“Yeah. He’s brilliant at reading people. But I didn’t want to believe him. I didn’t wanna be setting myself up for disappointment. Like, the first guy—the first person—I really like, and it turns out he’s not even into blokes.”

Neil can’t hold back his initial reaction, a disbelieving snort. “How ironic.”

“I know. But then he pointed you out at the bar.”

“Huh.” And with that, the dust is blown off of the memory, uncovering a crystal-clear image: Stephen in his girlie little club-kid outfit, sat on the stool with abysmal posture, hunched over, legs crossed, cig and leg dangling the same way. Neil reaching over and touching his hand, fixing him with a soft and steady gaze, clinging on to every word of gossip that poured from his pouting lips. But now he’s not seeing it through Camera 1, his own point of view—he’s moved to the hidden Camera 2. He can just see the subtle nudge that Marc would give Chris, the _hey, look over there_, and Chris turning to view two blokes ensconced in a hot ‘n’ heavy flirting session—one of whom was his Very Straight Best Mate.

“Who was that bloke, anyway?” asks Chris, a hint of possession in his eyes. “Did you know him?”

“Well, I did and I didn’t. I’d seen him before; he was a regular at the synth shop where you and I met. Very mouse-like creature, I thought. Small, blond, skittering in and out without causing any real trouble.”

“Is that your type, then? Mice?”

“Ha. Funny you should say that. I do this thing, you know…” A trace of trepidation licks his insides. He’s about to take Chris on a journey through one of the less-travelled parts of his mind, one that most people don’t get to see, and that always makes him feel a bit vulnerable. “I sort of look at people and guess what animal they might be.”

“No. Way. I do that, too.”

“Do you?!”

“Yeah!”

“Alright, then what am I?” Put at ease, Neil sits back, poses, fluffs his hair.

“Right now? A peacock. Or a poodle.”

Neil rolls his eyes. “Okay then. What if I don’t preen myself so self-consciously?” He sits up straight in his chair, attempting to present a blank canvas.

Chris studies the canvas keenly, as though he’s figuring out what his painting will be. He squints in a thoughtful, exacting, and very endearing way. Not since his last visit to the school nurse has Neil been so carefully scrutinised, and that was fifteen years ago. Also of note is the fact that it’s taking Chris ages to settle on his choice. If it were any of his other friends, they would have called him a dog and been done with it. A boring, boilerplate response, meant to shunt the conversation forward so that no one dwells too closely on themselves or others. But then, what would be better? Moving things along, or dragging them out so that Neil begins to doubt himself and the animal he’s about to be given? _Oh, God, what if he calls me a dog? Not that there’s anything wrong with that…_

“Can I do a cross?” Chris finally asks.

“Sure.” _I won’t be just a dog, I guess._

“Perfect. And don’t laugh. You’re like a cross between a fox”_—not bad—_“and a butterfly.”

Neil starts at that. Even after straightening himself out, he’s been given one of the single most frou-frou animals in all the land. The fox is butch enough, what with Reynard and Robin Hood and all that, but he can’t think of a single butterfly to compare himself to. They will forever be symbols of light, delicate, decidedly un-butch beauty, and just ‘coz they were his favourite animal growing up, doesn’t mean he needs to be one. He can’t be; he’s neither as dainty nor as pretty as the creature implies. “Okay, a fox, sure, but a butterfly? Am I that gay?”

“Fine, fine, you can be a moth. A fox and a moth. A foth.”

“I find it hard to believe that I could be any sort of floaty, pretty insect that girls like,” Neil states primly, rounding back on his prissy old Queen of England persona. Wait. Queen of England. Was that a gay thing too?

“It’s not—look, it had nothing to do with your sexuality. You’ve really come out of your shell. Or chrysalis, as it were.”

“Have I?” says Neil, softening.

“Yeah. I’ve seen it. You’re not so uptight, you’re razor sharp and dead funny, and you’ve got this amazing laugh that just rips out of you like a demented walrus. So there. A cross between a fox, a butterfly and a walrus.”

“Oh, that's flattering.”

“See? There you go. That’s what I love about you. You’re so droll. So dry. And clever. That’s where the fox comes in. Foxes are sneaky, right? They never miss a trick, and they can always tell when they’re being hoodwinked. I love when you go somewhere and you can instantly tell when you’re being ripped off. Like the other day, when we went to the record shop and I wanted that rare twelve-inch, and you managed to haggle it down from four pounds to two?”

_Hmm, he’s talking_ very _quickly now. Wonder if that means anything._ “Four pounds for a record that had likely never been touched by human hands, considering the half-inch layer of dust on it. I’m not sure where you even found the thing.”

Having finished his meal, which grew better with every bite, Neil leans back in his chair, reminiscing. It’s interesting to hear what Chris remembers about their encounters. What Neil recalls is not the fervent round of bargaining, but the glance they exchanged as they unearthed the record from its somewhat beat-up sleeve and placed it on the record player. The glance had, as the saying goes, something old and something new. The old was the by-now comfortingly familiar ritual of taking their latest purchase out for a spin; the new was the music itself, and Neil’s appreciation of it. It had taken some time for him to come around on the band, Imagination, but after setting aside his rockist prejudices, he found he could enjoy them for their sheer accessibility. This was music that was likeable from the start. He enjoyed the steady beat, the low electric bass, the simple piano, and the smooth, accomplished vocalist—even if he did spell his name with three E’s.

Neil also remembers buying another record during that trip. Something that he had to keep a secret from Chris. While _he_ was busy diving into crates that had been shoved away since the seventies, acquiring dusty knees and a backache that he’d no doubt complain about later, Neil was at the till, spending a whopping nine pounds on a record he knew would be special for both of them. Part of the reason he’d been able to slash the price of the Imagination record was that he felt guilty about the extravagance of his purchase just a few minutes ago. But it was absolutely worth it. Or would be.

“Alright,” Neil says, settling his elbows on the table. He can’t conceal the excitement on his face. “My turn.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know what animal you are. And it’s also a hybrid. A dog…and a snake.”

Chris blinks, surprised. “A snake?”

“Yes. You’re not just Chris Lowe. You’re Chrisssssssss Lowe.” Hissing like that gives Neil a silly, childlike sense of delight, and he bursts into giggles.

“I don’t think I’m long enough to be a snake,” Chris says, with a faint air of whinging, woe-is-me. But Neil won’t let that ruin his mood.

“Let me explain,” he insists, getting up and pulling Chris to his feet. They stand, face to face and toe to toe, and while Chris is a smidge shorter, he’s still able to look Neil dead in the eye. His height should really be the least of his worries. “Snakes come in all shapes and sizes, from garters”—in a flash of inspiration, he runs his hand along the inside of Chris’s thigh, where a lacy garter would lay—“to pythons.” As he says the last word, his hand creeps higher, higher, closing over the python itself. Doing this still feels bold, especially while their clothes are on, but what reassures him is the fact that he knows Chris likes it. The touch, the talk, the stroke of the ego. So what if he’s mangled his metaphor by turning it into a comment on Chris’s endowment? Who cares? In affairs of the heart, grammar, logic and rhetoric can be casualties every once in a while.

And Chris certainly isn’t complaining. “That’s one way to put it,” he says, with a lewd grin. “So I’m a snake ‘coz I’ve got one?”

“No, it was simply apropos. But you’ve always had a snakish energy to you. Your look. Your tongue. Your flashy clothes. Your cavalier attitude towards accidental shoplifting. I thought you were a little hellion at first.”

The grin disappears in an instant. “Little?!”

“Ohhh—in the fond, diminutive sense of the word. You’re plenty tall. Taller than anyone I’ve ever been with, anyway. Taller than Jimmy.”

Chris is gazing at him, mystified, doing a chalkboard’s worth of mental math in his head. “Are you saying you’ve…”

When Neil realises what he’s implying—and what he himself has just implied—he cracks up and gives Chris a shove. “No! Course not! Oh God, that was the worst wording ever. And coming from someone who works with words for a living…No, we just talked. We’re mates.” It’s an attempt to call back to Chris’s comment from earlier, but it doesn’t work when they’ve talked a grand total of thrice. “In a fashion. We still don’t completely agree on the whole ‘moral responsibility thing’, but he did have some good advice.”

“Did he?”

“Here, let’s discuss this on the sofa. It’s better for semi-serious conversations.” He beckons Chris to the sofa, where they sit down. For some reason, it does feel like a more appropriate place for the kind of talk they’re about to have. It’s why people always say _are you sitting down?_ when they’re about to give big news, isn't it?

He brushes the crumbs off his trousers, not even minding the tiny grease stains they’ve left or the fact that they’re going straight into his carpet, and continues: “Well, don’t finish with you, for one, although I think he was saying that just ‘coz he didn’t want to deal with a sobbing, heartbroken mess getting tears in his third pint of mint chocolate chip. Which I hardly think you would be, if we broke up. Would you?”

“Nah. I hate mint.”

Unfooled, Neil simply waits for a better answer.

“…I mean, you know how I feel, right?” Chris’s eyes, shy and wary, meet Neil’s for a moment before sliding away. He hitches himself up onto the sofa and grabs a velvet cushion, raking his fingers across it. His nails leave paler traces of green against the dark, plush fabric. Neil recognises this as the classic urge to supply one’s hands with tactile stimulation when nervous. He’s done it himself. “I told you the first time we, erm…” Chris makes an awkward, indecipherable shape with his hands.

Once Neil understands, he’s happy to supply the ending. “…made love?”

Chris nods. He smoothes the velvet to its original colour and scratches again.

“I have to say, I didn’t know if that was the typical post-coital lovey-dovey dopamine rush.” Neil’s not sure what exactly he’s digging for here. Reassurance, maybe.

“Nah. That was real.” Chris’s expression turns sour and his fingers claw the pillow with a surprising vigour. Then they slowly let go. “Sorry. Don’t mean to destroy your stuff.”

“It’s fine. No harm done.” Neil looks up at Chris, who passes him the cushion. He clutches it to his stomach. Always nice to have something soft to hold on to in talks like this. Although he’s not been nearly as forthcoming with his feelings as Chris, the nature of the conversation has brought the most subconscious, secret ones to the surface. They’ve risen to the brim, from gut to head, and he can see them swimming about like tadpoles in his mind.

Now Chris attempts to cast his line. “Wha…” He pauses, rewinds his line and tries again. “What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“D’you…erm…” His stammering makes it crystal clear what he wants to know. _D’you feel that way, too._

Swept away on a wave of memories, Neil lands on the shore of their very first time, specifically the denouement—which was, on reflection, the true climax of that day. Sure, his orgasm had been intense, but what really stood out were the moments after: climbing into bed with Chris, allowing himself to be held, feeling physically covered yet emotionally bare. The way a man’s body, wrapped around him, could inspire feelings far deeper than lust. Safety. Peace. A liberating, defiant sense of rightness.

It could also inspire doubt. Nothing that felt this right could ever _be_ right, not in Neil’s book, and so a ruthless interrogation began. And while his initial line of questioning revolved around Chris’s feelings for him, it had at least as much to do with the reverse, if not more. But until he heard Chris speak the words _I adore you_, he had no idea he felt the same way. To see it for himself, he needed to hear Chris say it—and in that moment the cover was lifted off all his other emotions, too, revealing their dark underbelly. Every emotion had an equal and opposite remotion. Inside safety, there was insecurity; inside peace, there was turmoil; inside rightness, there was wrongness. Or rather, what-if-I’m-wrong-ness.

That. That right there. That’s been his Achilles’ heel, every step of the way. It’s taken on many guises—_is it OK if I, am I allowed to, what if I prefer, is it wrong for me to, can I really do this and get away with it?_—but the main quandary is the same. If he weren’t so concerned with doing things properly, and with what others thought, he wouldn’t have had nearly as much trouble. And the sad thing is, he still feels that way. Even now there’s a voice at the back of his head, digging for a “what-if” that could invalidate his feelings. This is the Divine Arbiter of Morality, or his pint-sized, nasty henchman. He never speaks in the great, booming voice you’d associate with a god; it’s always an irritating whinge.

_What if it’s not OK for you to tell him you love him back when you’re not 100% settled on your sexuality? You should really think about that before you say things you’ll regret—_

_HE DOESN’T CARE. For Chrissake, give it a rest. And for Chris’s sake, too._

Then he hears a sad moan. Looking up, he sees that Chris’s chin has dipped so low that it’s hitting his shirt. His heart plunges, and he finds the power in himself to silence the henchman. Whatever the ethics of the _question du jour_, it is much worse to let Chris feel this way than it is to upset the morality gods.

“Chris?”

“What.” An astoundingly sullen response, with zero question mark at the end. 

“I’m sorry, I was thinking. Oh, don’t look like that.” He crawls over, picks up Chris’s chin and kisses it. Then his lips. Then each of his cheeks, right under his eyes, which have gone unnervingly liquid. “I feel the same way. I adore you.”

The words make them both tremble. They’re gazing at each other, caught in a strange sort of limbo, and when Chris blinks, a few tears leak out. He wipes them away with his fist, blinks again, and stares at Neil with eyes that are suddenly very different. Now they’re more like the ends of lit matches. There’s something scary about them, the way they glint and the power they hold.

He was right to be afraid. Within seconds, they set fire to Neil’s soul. He can feel it lighting up and sparking brightly, an enormous blaze of spirit, far outside his control. He adores Chris. It’s true, and it’s big, and he’s terrified.

And yet.

At seven, he read a book about the ecology of forests. One line in particular baffled him, and he can quote it to this day: _in certain North American Indian societies, controlled fires were used to maintain the health of forests and surrounding ecosystems._ The book went on to describe how selectively burning the trees would help to regulate both plant and animal life, and make travel easier. For Neil, fire had always been something to fear, from the Great Fire of London to the simple worry of getting too close to the burner. Fires wreaked havoc on buildings and injured, even killed people. How could it be controlled? How could anybody want that? How could it possibly be a good thing?

At twenty-seven, he now understands.

When his own controlled fire dies down, he feels cleansed. The trees inside him needed to burn. They were deadwood, and incinerating them has cleared a path to the corresponding remotion. Deep inside his terror was a pure and beautiful happiness, one that takes his whole body in its thrall. 

“What’re you smiling about?” Chris asks, smiling himself.

“I adore you,” Neil repeats, and starts to laugh. “Why was I so scared to admit it? It’s bloody obvious! No wonder I was such a kettle of nerves at the thought of you wanting a proper gay boyfriend. Sorry about that, by the way. I know it’s no fun, me needling you over and over. You can just tell me to shut up when my neuroses kick in.”

“Aw, c’mon, I wouldn’t do that. And you are a Proper Gay Boyfriend,” Chris says, enunciating the words like they’re a brand name. “Whatever that is.”

“A PGB.”

“Yeah. A PGB. Whenever anybody starts banging on about what we should be like, we can just turn to each other and go _PGB._”

“Perfect.” Neil giggles and hops off the sofa, pulling Chris along with him. “Now let’s put on some PGM.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll see!” he sings, leaving Chris standing there as he races to his room. There, under his bed, is the special record he bought for Chris. Pulling it out of its sleeve, he sees that it’s hardly been played. Not a single scratch. Sparing a single moment of pity for the poor soul who failed to appreciate its genius, he walks back to the living room, lays down the shiny black vinyl and drops the needle.

As Chris takes in the swirling synths, storming violins, and thumping, unmistakable beat of his favourite song, his eyes widen.

“You didn’t.”

“I did!”

“I’ve been looking for this record for—how on earth did you find it?”

“Top-secret _Smash Hits_ sources. Very exclusive. No, I just picked it up on one of our trips.” Now the song really kicks in, and Neil starts to dance, Heaven-style. Wiggling his hips, pumping his arms and snapping his fingers, bringing the excitement of a 1000-capacity nightclub to his tiny old bedroom. The only other guest he really needs is Chris, anyway; he’s plenty exciting enough. And this way, Neil doesn’t need to hunt him down on a crowded, sweaty dance-floor just to dance with him.

Then it occurs to him that Chris doesn’t know about that story. Neil never told him. Well, what better chance than now?

“Remember when we went to Heaven that first time?”

“Yeah?”

In a fit of pure joy, Neil grabs hold of Chris’s hand and executes a perfect twirl. “I tried to get them to play this song for you. I asked Marc, actually, but he must have forgot.”

“Neil…” Chris smiles and shakes his head. “I don’t even remember telling you that.”

“I do. It was on our third date. Can we call them dates now, even though we weren’t technically dating then?”

“Eh, why not.”

“Fab. Anyway, you were nattering on about disco—I couldn’t get over how much you knew—and we got to Sylvester, and Patrick Cowley, and you said they deserved to be as famous as Lennon/McCartney.” Another spin, then a ballroom-style dip. _Couldn’t get away with doing this at Heaven_, Neil thinks. “No. Even more. The best songwriting duo ever. And anyone who disagreed should listen to the full ten minutes of ‘Stars’ and then get back to you.”

“I still believe it. They’re bloody brill, the pair of ‘em. Geniuses.”

“I know. And you taught me that.” He taps Chris’s lovely round nose, feeling floaty and flirty and light. “Don’t forget, I adore you.”

“M…me too.” Chris is blushing. As if to fight it off, he rears up and wraps his arms around Neil, sliding his hands deep into his jean pockets and curling them. Neil lets out a yelp, to which Chris cackles. “Actually, no. I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m only dating you for your Jupiter-8.” He squeezes. “And this firm arse.”

Feeling the sublime press of Chris’s fingers on his backside and his pelvis on his front, Neil finds a worthy comeback fast. “Ha—joke’s on you. I’m only dating you ‘coz of your fab cap collection.” He slowly swoops it off, winks, and places it on his own head. Then he’s putting his hand to decidedly less G-rated use. “And this tasty knackwurst.”

By now Chris’s laughter is riotous, and though it’s gauche to laugh at one’s own joke, Neil can’t help but join in. “Oh yeah, baby,” Chris says, voice soaked in sarcasm, “you know how to get me going. Talk German to me.”

“_Gesundheit. Auf wiedersehen._”

“Don’t _auf wiedersehen_ me, you git! That means goodbye!”

The bed’s right there and they’re already tipping against it, so it takes only the slightest push from Chris for them to tumble down, crowing at their own stupid senses of humour and the delight of shared adoration. The cap comes off Neil’s head, and Chris takes it and wrestles it back on before kissing him softly. Neil looks at him, thinking about all that he’s brought. A new hobby. A new appreciation of music. A new way of looking at himself. A new love.

One last tree inside him burns, and Sylvester just goes on singing.

_You are a star. Everybody is one. You’re a star, and you only happen once._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! It's been quite a journey writing this fic, and I hope you enjoyed coming along with me. I'll be taking a little break after this, but I'd like to return soon with some totally new takes on these guys. 40 years = a lot of fic-writing potential!
> 
> I've also put together a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1KReBAFYQrxOaOSP235Cno?si=cm-rrH40TtyQ-_9B4ecIOg) for this fic, along with a [listening guide](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1kcr1KZpWo2TooefEBd92br0qrhKC64zhu71oNVTnFn0/edit?usp=sharing). I've tried to capture all the songs that are featured in this fic, plus some of the music they would have been really inspired by, including a lot of stuff written and performed by LGBTQ+ artists. It's a work in progress, feel free to provide suggestions!
> 
> A huge thanks to everyone who gave comments, kudos, and views - I appreciate them immensely. 💖💖💖


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